Survial Guide
by corbinsky
Summary: Post-Mockingjay story featuring Katniss and Peeta's teenage son as Panem experiences several natural disasters which leave the country in an economic depression and facing imminent country-wide famine. The shortage of food also brings the threat of encroaching dangers from the north, beasts long banished out of the districts who return in desperation and leave a bloody trail.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

The main thoroughfare through Merchant's Square is too heavily populated. I can't risk being seen just so someone at the bakery can rat me out to Dad. I will have to take the long way around by the butcher's and hope that Kit isn't busy with a customer at the Gallery. Wincing with the pressure of stepping down on my wounded leg, I work my way around the corner of the blacksmith shop and limp down the alley toward the backdoor of my father's art gallery. It is open to allow in a late summer breeze, and I am relieved to find Kit just inside. Sitting at her desk under the window, she is deep in concentration over Mom's latest survival guide writing project and doesn't notice me until after I've call her name several times in a raised whisper. Peeking around the edge of the door, I keep an eye out for either of my parents and hope desperately that they don't walk in from the front of the gallery any time soon.

"Sage!" Kit glances up and sets down her pen with wide eyes of recognition. "Where have you been? You were supposed to be here right after school."

"I know," I don't need reminding. "I was…busy."

Her gaze drops to the ripped material in my pants leg and the blood stain soaking into the fabric. "Sage…"

"Quiet," I snap, looking over her shoulder through the adjoining door leading into the gallery. "Are they here?"

"Mrs. Mellark is," Kit follows my rapid glance and lowers her voice accordingly. "Your dad is in a meeting down at the Hall of Justice, but he should be back soon."

"Good," I nod and check the empty alley like a guilty man in hiding. I guess that's what I am, toting Mom's hunting bow which I am in no way allowed to use out of her supervision. Not to mention the fact that I have been out in the woods all afternoon when I was supposed to have reported to the Gallery for work almost two hours ago. Maybe a little guilty, but this was a perfect day for hunting and the mayor's daughter insisted on a private lesson, how could I say no to that? "Kit…" I give her my most enduring, pleading look and hope she'll come through for me again.

Her eyes narrow but there is a smile hiding where she tries to conceal it, and I know I have her. My mother's young assistant has been my friend and ally since she started working at the Gallery when I was only ten. Five years of lying and covering for me while I skipped out on responsibilities has awarded us a strong bond. I owe her a great deal.

"Alright," she sighs with a twinkle in her eye. "What's your excuse this time?"

"Just tell her…" I pull up the best thing I can come up with. "Tell her I had a headache and went home."

Kit frowns. "Yes, I'm sure she'll believe that."

"Well, whatever," I grumble irritably. If she doesn't like it maybe she should come up with something better. "Tell her what you want then. I'm going home."

"Okay, I'll be sure to describe your flesh wound in great detail so she'll understand. What is that, a wildcat scratch?"

"Arrow puncture," I grimace. "Fine, just tell her I had to stay after school." _That_ Mom will believe.

Kit nods with her eyebrows scrunching together in contemplation. "Arrow? Whose arrow…yours?"

"Don't ask." Grumbling, I turn to go, using the bow as support as I limp away.

"You should stop at the healer's," she calls after me.

"Is Lily there?"

"No, she was here but headed home about a half hour ago."

I nod. "I'll take my chances with her first."

"Suit yourself." Kit disappears inside the Gallery, and I slowly make my way home to the Village on the far side of town. The sun is beginning to descend on the western ridge, but I am hot and perspiring under the effort of walking with this aching wound. I should have never allowed Glade to handle the bow, not with real arrows anyway. I should have brought the rubber tipped, practice arrows that Mom first trained me on. But Glade would have never used them, I know. She would have found the baby toys insulting and probably left me in disgust to spend time with Reed, the pug-nosed grocer's son. Maybe we should have invited him along and he could have taken her misguided hit to the leg with a wayward arrow instead of me. Now Dad is going to maim me for hunting alone, Mom will yell at me for taking her bow without asking and, between the two of them, I will suffer for my poor judgment until I'm dead and gone.

Thankfully the avenue from Merchant's Square up to the Village is deserted and I make it home without being spotted. The kitchen is also empty when I stumble inside and fall into an open chair before the table, dropping the bow and arrow holder nearby as an afterthought.

Propping my left leg on another chair, I bite back a groan of pain and rip open the bottom of my pants for a better look at the wound. There is a lot of blood, congealing and drying in matted streams down my leg. The edge of my sock is soaked with it. Aside from that it didn't look that bad. The arrow hadn't actually penetrated the muscle. It had simply glanced off and tore at the first few layers of skin, leaving a three inch long gash. It is ugly and painful, but I figure if I can get it clean and bandaged before my parents get home then they'll never be the wiser.

"Lily!" I call for my sister, hoping that she is indeed home. "Lily, come down here!"

There is the audible noise of a chair scrapping the floor on the second level and moments later Lily's footsteps sound on the stairs as she descends. "What?" she asks with a touch of impatience. Apparently I have pulled her away from something important.

Her eyes find my leg wound and grow wide. "What did you do?"

"I ran into an arrow," I reply shortly. I am feeling a little woozy and don't really want to get into the details right then.

Lily notices the bow and looks exasperated. "Sage…Dad's gonna flip."

"I know, can you fix it?"

"I shouldn't," she admonishes, but moves in and takes control nonetheless. Opening a cupboard near the sink, she pulls out clean bandages, gauze, and antiseptic before piling them on the table. Filling a sterile bowl with steaming water, she wets a cloth and begins cleaning the gash with gentle strokes. Despite her healer's touch, I find myself gripping the edge of my chair, fighting the stinging pain.

"How did you possibly manage this?" Lily asks, bending over my leg with a frown. She looks just like Mom with that face. Looks like her, but is actually nothing like Mom. When it comes to our parental similarities we are somehow flip-flopped. I look like dad with Mom's eyes and personality. Lily has Mom's dark hair and complexion with Dad's blue eyes and gentle mannerisms. She will be a successful healer and District diplomat when she finishes school at the end of the year; everyone is aware of her potential. I, obviously, am the reckless one with no prospects or real direction. Characteristics which make my relationship with my father understandably strained.

"Did you shoot yourself?" Lily continues to press when I don't respond immediately.

"Sort of…" I am not about to tell her, or anyone, that the mayor's daughter had accompanied me on my hunt. Lily views everything in black and white and can't keep a secret under any amount of persuasion.

"It's deep," she sits up, dropping a bloody rag into the murky water. "You'll need stitches."

"What?" I hadn't expected this. "No, can't you just wrap it up?" Glancing at the clock on the wall, I begin to get nervous. Mom and Dad will be home any minute.

"Not if you want it to heal right," Lily responds a-matter-of-factly. "And you'll need to use a crutch for a few days to make sure the stitches take. Don't argue," she warns me before I even get the chance. "I'll prepare the needle."

I am a dead man. There is no way she will finish stitching before they get home, and I still need time to clean up and get rid of the tell-tale bloody clothing. I need a way to stall them.

Lilly disappears upstairs to retrieve a needle and medical thread from her training supply bag in her room. I take a chance, pull myself out the chair and set my wound to bleeding again in my attempt to cross the room to the telephone. _Please let Haymitch be home, please let him answer the phone… _

I make it to the opposite side of the kitchen and even pick up the receiver but never get the chance to dial. Lily returns in a rush and instructs me shrilly to sit down before I hurt myself more. It is then that the backdoor opens and our parents walk in, stopping short at the sight of the medical mess in the kitchen, Lily with her needle, and me where I bleed into my sock.

"Hey…Dad." It will be pointless to even try and cover it up. "I…had an accident."

The clenching in his jaw is visible even from across the room and I wouldn't mind a quick escape route. Mom isn't even looking at me, but at her bow lying carelessly on the floor by the table. She bends down and picks it up, casting me a heated glare before replacing it carefully in its place on the wooden rungs of a bow holder hanging on the wall.

"Sit," Dad commands, pointing at the open chair I have just vacated. "Explain, now."

"He needs stitches," Lily pipes in weakly as I slowly make my way back around the table wishing Glade was a better markswoman. If only she had shot me dead so I won't have to endure what is coming.

Mom nods at Lily and gives her permission to continue her handiwork with my wound. Both her and Dad move to stand against the counter to face me, still waiting for an explanation.

"I took the bow out," I mumble, dropping my gaze to the floor and wincing once again as I settle my leg back into place. I want to ask for something for the pain while Lily attacks me with the needle, but have a feeling my request will be denied.

"That much is obvious," Dad crosses his arms and waits for more.

"I just wanted to hunt," I shrug. "I didn't mean to get shot."

"Shot," Mom considers this cynically, "with your own arrow."

The idea sounds even more ludicrous when she says it. She knows very well I could have never inflicted that wound myself. "It ricocheted?"

"Try again."

Alright, nothing is going to get me out of this but the truth. "Someone else shot me."

"Who?" Dad wants to know, and I hesitate in the effort to think up a random name quick. The time lapse costs me and his eyes flash with anger as he repeats his demand with a raised voice.

"Glade Orwell."

"Mayor Orwell's daughter!"

"Peeta," Mom puts a warning hand on his arm to keep him from lunging at me. Dad's not normally one to overreact, but he's a big guy and rather intimidating in the right circumstance. I can't help but flinch and find the floor again, feeling lousy. Glade will never think twice about me now, not after I have betrayed her involvement in our little excursion.

Dad settles back against the counter but loses none of the heat in his expression. After all, he is the District 12 Council President and our region's lone diplomatic representative for Panem. His relationship with the mayor is already strained. I suppose this really doesn't help any. "What possessed you to take Mayor Orwell's daughter outside the District boundaries, on your own, with a weapon that doesn't belong to you?"

What possessed me was a pair of sea green eyes on a perfect, pouty face that wouldn't take no for an answer. But I don't think that's what they want to hear. "Nothing," I mutter instead.

"Nothing possessed you," Dad nods with suppressed rage. He opens his mouth to say more, but Mom interrupts before he can.

"What if something had happened to the both of you? How would we have known where you were?"

"Nothing happened—" I cut myself off with a growling cry of pain as Lily's needle hits sensitive flesh. I fight to catch my breath and tighten my grip on the edge of my chair again to keep myself from jumping right out of it.

"You call this nothing?" Dad points out.

"I think he understands his mistake, Peeta." Mom kneads her temples as if staving off a growing headache. "And I am sure it won't happen again." This she directs at me and I take that as my cue to agree to whatever the terms of my punishment turn out to be.

I quickly nod and await the inevitable, looking to Dad for the final judgment.

He appears as if he cares to continue with the scolding for a while yet, but catches Mom's eye and begrudgingly gives in. "I want you at the bakery every day after school for the next month, wounded or not."

"A month!"

Mom looks up in warning and I shut up fast, excepting my fate and keeping the rest of my thoughts to myself.

"You will not so much as look at your mother's bow during that time," Dad continues. "And if I hear about you and Miss Orwell passing outside the Boundaries alone again you can forget about hunting for the rest of the year."

It is a bit extreme; I am not a child any more. I'm almost the same age as he was when he got enlisted in the Hunger Games. He acts like I can't handle myself in the wild at all. I've only been following Mom in her hunts since I could walk, but what do I know, right? Shoot, I can handle a bow better than he can; it just isn't fair.

"Show me that you understand, Sage." He raises his voice again to ensure that I've heard him. Gritting my teeth and refusing to look at either of them, I nod curtly and close my eyes against the uncomfortable tension in my leg. I can tell without looking that my parents are exchanging aggravated nonverbal communication, something they are prone to do where I am concerned. Mom most likely doesn't find my actions that offensive but has to keep face so as to not contradict Dad's discipline. One consolation to my punishment is that I know she won't be able to endure too many hunts without me for long. Banishment or not, I will hold a bow before the month long probation is over if she has anything to say about it.

With our discussion now done, Dad turns to dinner preparations as Lily finishes stitching and dressing my wound. Mom ducks down into the basement to return with a wooden crutch and helps me adjust it to my height so that I may move freely about the house. The stairs will have to be avoided for a few days, so I am given the couch in the sitting room to sleep on. I move there ahead of time to stay out of Dad's way in the kitchen and sulk over my misfortunes in silence.

Fall is coming on fast and soon it will be prime hunting season. Deer are plentiful, even duck, rabbit, and squirrel…why did I have to go and get myself banned from the woods right then? It is Glade's fault. If she hadn't been messing around and trying to be funny I wouldn't be in this mess. But I can't really blame her. No one can ever blame Glade Orwell for anything, not with a face like that…

I jump in my seat at the sound of a brisk knock on the sitting room window across the room. Looking over, I feel my face grow hot for being caught daydreaming about Glade's intense green eyes as if she can read my thoughts where she stands peering through the glass.

"_Sage_," she waves with an eager whisper, glancing towards the entrance to the kitchen in search of my parents. "_Can you come out_?"

Of course I can. I will fly across the world if she wants me too.

Leaving the crutch behind, I try my best not to grimace as I hop on one foot across the floor to the front door. I give a precautionary glance over my shoulder as well before easing out onto the porch where the girl of my dreams waits, holding back a giggle of nervous excitement.

"Were they mad?" she asks.

"A little," I roll my eyes sarcastically and lean against the window sill to take the weight off my leg. It occurs to me that I probably should have closed the pane to keep Mom and Dad from overhearing us, but am not about to go back now that I'm here.

"I'm so sorry," Glade attempts to cover a laugh, her eyes betraying her full enjoyment over my plight. "Does it hurt?"

Please, is she kidding me? "No, not at all. Just a few stitches…"

"Stiches? Oh, Sage," she grows increasingly fond, moving closer and brushing my arm with the tips of her fingers, "you poor thing."

Yes, poor me. I shrug as if it is nothing. "It'll heal. Probably leave a scar, but…"

"How long? You'll still be able to take me out again Saturday, right? Sage," she catches my hesitancy and squelches it with an irritable look of scolding. "You promised. You promised you would teach me how to set a snare, remember?"

Of course I remember. "Yeah…" I nod with little confidence. "No problem."

She flashes me a smile, and I vow to figure out a way to keep my word even if it kills me. "Great, I can't wait! Bonnie will be so jealous—"

"Wait," I interrupt. "You can't say anything, Glade. To anyone, not even Bonnie."

"Why not?" The pout returns, but this time I am determined to stand against it. It is bad enough that I let Glade's name slip with my parents. If word gets around and reaches the mayor that I escort his only daughter into the woods on a regular basis it could mean a lot of bad blood between our two families. Dad will probably disown me if Mom doesn't kill me first.

"You just can't," I argue. "If your dad found out—"

"Well he won't, will he?" she is sure. "Nobody but us knows. Right?" she doesn't miss my attempt to avoid her eye. "Sage… Nobody else knows, right? You didn't tell your parents who it was that shot you, did you?"

"No," I lie, "of course not."

"Good," Glade responds with pointed attitude, and I understand that such treachery will not be condoned if this is going to work. "No problem then."

"No problem," I mutter, feeling lousy. I just hope Dad has no intention of having a chat with the mayor or I can kiss my chances with Glade goodbye for good.

Appearing more confident than I feel, she flashes me another breathtaking smile and leans in. Her fingers find mine and touch them playfully, batting her long, dark eyelashes and causing my breath to catch in my dry throat. "See you at school tomorrow?"

"Yeah," I nod, contemplating making a move and just going for it, kissing her while I have the chance, but stop short at the sudden look of horror on her face. Her gaze has shifted beyond my shoulder, and I turn to see my dad on the other side of the window. The furious look on his face is back, his arms crossed and stance menacing enough to cause Glade to drop my hand and quickly back away.

"Bye, Sage," she leaves in a flash, and I abstain from cursing out loud. This day couldn't get any worse.

"Dinner's ready," Dad announces with a deadly voice reserved only for me. I hobble back inside without the nerve to even look at him. This is it, the end of my hunting career for life, I am sure. "Eat fast," he instructs me. "You and I have a meeting with the mayor."

_What?_ I look at him then, heart jumping to my throat. "No, Dad," I plead. "Please, please don't make me tell him. He'll kill me!"

"No less than you deserve," he mutters sarcastically, leading the way back to the kitchen and tossing me my crutch.

I catch it and hurry after him, desperate to change his mind. "I'm sorry, okay? She just stopped over to apologize, to make sure I was alright. I told her I can't hunt anymore and we can't go into the woods." I hope to God that he buys the lie and hadn't been standing by that window long enough to hear what we were really talking about.

His face gives away nothing but continued disappointment and frustration. Dad isn't backing down and I know that I have lost, again. "Eat," he takes a seat at the table and jabs a fork toward my usual place to his left. "The mayor is expecting us in an hour."

The walk to Mayor Orwell's house feels like a death march. How am I supposed to tell Glade's father that I purposely put his daughter's life at risk by encouraging her fascination with the wild? Or that the reason I am limping and toting a crutch is because I couldn't resist her pleas to hand over a deadly weapon for her to play with? Orwell has been looking for an excuse to get dad pulled from his diplomatic position in the capitol for years. I just hope this isn't the opportunity he's been hoping for.

"Don't speak until I tell you to," Dad instructs me on the road to town. "Just give him the facts in the simplest description possible, but be honest. Then apologize and shut up, got it?"

Yeah, I get it. I won't make this worse than it already is; not if I can help it.

A lumbering form approaches on the road out of the gloom, and I can smell Uncle Haymitch before his features are even clear on his grisly face. Where was he two hours ago when I could have used his ingenuity to divert my parents from seeing my bloody blunder?

"Kinda late for a stroll eh, kid?" Haymitch still called my dad 'kid' despite his age and position in the community. I guess mentors never really get over being mentors, even when the Games have long since been done away with. "Pressing business at the Hall of Justice?"

"Close," Dad mutters, "a meeting with the mayor."

Haymitch's eyebrows go up as his gaze rests on me, not missing my sheepish attempt to hide a smile even in the dark. Dad doesn't miss it either, and I quickly cover it with a stoic expression, shifting my weight uncomfortably on my crutch.

"Well, I would give my condolences but it appears you are already aware of your misfortune." Haymitch raises his bottle of liquor in salute and passes on his way home to drink himself into a coma. "Good luck, kid." This time the comment is directed toward me, under his breath and full of heavy sardonic sympathy.

_Thanks_, I think with a growing pit in my stomach.

As we approach the front of the mayor's well-lit house, I can only hope that Glade isn't the one to answer the door. She will find out soon enough that the jig is up. She will also undoubtedly despise me and never speak to me again. Somehow, this makes me feel worse than the possibility that Mayor Orwell may drag Dad's name through the mud and call for his resignation.

It isn't Glade, but Mrs. Orwell who responds to our knock and she leads us into the adjoining parlor off the front hall. The mayor is already there, sitting in a stiff looking high-backed chair near a roaring fire. It is eighty degrees outside yet his slippered feet are propped up before the flames and he wears a velvet smoking jacket and tie. Mayor Orwell is at least fifteen years my dad's senior and has managed to secure his position in the community through well concealed bribery and slick-witted oration. A typical politician, he lives for power and despises anyone who possesses more than he does. Thus the strain between him and my father, Peeta Mellark, the revered and noted 'Prince of Panem.'

"What's this about, Mellark?" Orwell growls without getting up to greet us. Mrs. Orwell ducks in and out with refreshments, but the tray is ignored along with the seats she offers us on the sofa across from the mayor. Dad doesn't intend on staying long.

"My son has something he would like to tell you." He shoves me forward and I falter a moment on my good leg before catching myself and swallowing hard.

The mayor is watching me with beady eyes on a thin angular face and, under the shadow of the flickering firelight, I can't help but compare him to a preying vulture prepared to pick at my bones. "Well?" he barks. "What is it?"

I open my mouth but nothing comes out. Dad jabs me in the back and forces me to speak. "I went hunting in the woods today," I rush to explain, feeling like my voice is traveling through a mile-long tube. Orwell just appears impatient, and Dad pokes me again. "With Glade," I finish lamely and prepare for the imminent blow.

It begins with a flush of red springing up in the mayor's face and now he is a furnace about to explode. I actually step back and cower, running into Dad. This is worse than I even imagined.

"Glade!" Orwell erupts while thrusting himself out of his chair. Yelling for both his wife and daughter, he charges for the door and bangs it back against the wall. Mrs. Orwell appears first and passes an alarmed glance between her husband and us standing dumbly in the middle of her parlor. Dad's jaw is clenched in irritation, and I wonder when my part of this will mercifully end and he will begin to smooth things over. The sooner the better or Orwell might combust all over his shiny hardwood floor.

Glade arrives into the fray from above, stopping abruptly on the stairs in surprise when she spots me through the open parlor door. Understanding registers and her eyes quickly grow cold. This is it, the end of my life as I had hoped and dreamed.

"Daddy?" she hesitates to ask while advancing slowly into the room.

"Hunting!" he demands. "Is this true? Did you allow this boy to persuade you to go hunting? Outside of the Boundaries!"

"He didn't persuade me," Glade matches her father's hostility and reveals their inherited similarities. "I asked him to take me."

I am thankful that she is willing to stand up for me, but catch the glare which follows and know her generosity will be short lived.

"Glade!" Mrs. Orwell finally catches on to what is going on, looking appalled. "You could have been killed!"

"Oh please, Mother, nothing happened."

She avoids pointing out the obvious by not mentioning my leg wound, and I am not about to bring it up. Not after the warning scowl she passes me to ensure that I don't rat her out further. The sweet girl with the persuasive, batting eyelashes is gone; I'll never see her again. I should have kissed her while I had the chance.

"This is unbelievable," Orwell steams. "You're fascination with endangering your life is detestable, and I won't have it!"

"I'm not endangering my life," Glade argues. "I'm trying to learn how to how to save it! Sage's mom taught him everything she knows about survival and he's just teaching me."

"Survival from what?" the mayor snaps. "If you would obey and remain inside the District fence like you've been told there would be no reason to be concerned about survival!"

"Don't be so naive," Glade rolls her sharp eyes.

Orwell's face darkens into a dangerous shade of purple. Perhaps Dad and I should leave, but when I glance at him he shakes his head slightly, instructing me to stay still and be quiet.

"Go to your room!" Mr. Orwell commands forcefully. Glade doesn't wait to hear the rest of his rant, taking the stairs two at a time she leaves in a huff without even looking at me.

"Thank your wife for me, Mellark," the mayor turns his fury on Dad once again. "I always knew those survival guides would inspire trouble for the District. And now look at our young people, full of crazy ideas about roaming about the woods wielding deadly weapons for kicks! _Injuring_ themselves no less!" He gestures to my bandaged leg with emphasis.

Alright, that is just insulting. I would have never done something as careless as that to myself.

Dad steps forward to cut me off before I can retort and make things worse. "I agree that their actions were wrong," he informs the mayor coolly, "but it had nothing to do with Katniss. We have always taught our children to respect the Wild and not to abuse their skills with a bow. Sage knew better than to be influenced to act against our wishes, and he is sorry for doing so. He is here to apologize—"

"Influenced?" Orwell interrupted incredulously. "If anyone influenced anyone it was him! Glade would have never cared two cents for such poor endeavors if it wasn't for your son! All those 'glory' stories of tramping about in the woods with his mother, the famous Mockingjay!"

"Stories she may have heard, but didn't have to listen too," Dad points out.

"Oh yes," Orwell scoffs. "Lay the blame where you can, as usual, Mr. Mellark, and come out as the pious golden boy you've always been. Your careless parenting has finally caught up with you. The Council will have something to say to this."

"This has nothing to do with the Council." Dad has had enough now. With a strong hand on my arm, he begins steering me toward the door. "Tell Mayor Orwell you're sorry for your actions, Sage."

"Keep your apology!" Orwell snaps. "And prepare you arguments, Mellark. The citizens of District 12 will hear my complaint."

"Good evening, Mayor," Dad responds curtly, nodding at Mrs. Orwell on our way through the hall. "Mrs. Mayor."

"Just be thankful it wasn't my daughter that was injured!" Orwell interjects the final word before the door closes behind us. I have to work hard to keep up with my bum leg beside Dad's rapid strides. He himself always carries a slight limp from an old wound, but is much faster without the hindrance of a crutch. When I begin to lag behind, he slows down to allow me to catch up. Shoving his hands in his pockets, Dad looks up at the dome of stars breaking out in bright clusters overhead and sighs.

"Is he going to kick you out of the Council?" I ask cautiously.

He frowns and shakes his head. "He doesn't have the power to remove members. Not for the District representative seats either. That's for the people to decide."

_Great_, I think sarcastically. And how many of those people are large Mayor Orwell supporters? I guess one consolation is that far more have always stood by my dad when it came to choosing between the two. "I'm sorry I messed things up."

"You messed up, all right," he agreed. "But only for yourself. Don't worry about the mayor. Just keep your distance from his daughter for a while."

That isn't going to be a problem.

"I know hunting is a favorite hobby of yours…" Dad continues wearily. I can't see much more than his outline in the dark, but can tell his expression has softened. I can hear the exhaustion in his voice but also the subtle mercy, and I'm thankful for it. "I know how important it is for you and your mother. You might find my punishment harsh, but I want you to take this seriously, Sage."

"Yeah," I grudgingly get what he is trying to say.

"Katniss was taught to hunt by your grandfather as a means of survival, not for enjoyment. The mayor was right to say that you kids have nothing to survive from. It's just a game. A noble skill maybe, but a sport to be practiced, not abused. I can't allow you to continue if you can't take it seriously."

"I will," I assure him. I have to; I can't spend my life without a bow and won't take the chance of losing it.

That is enough of a lecture for him, and we spend the rest of our walk home in silence. Mom is still in the kitchen when we return and she pours out ice cold glasses of tea from a waiting pitcher. Dad digs out my favorite chocolate cookies and the whole incident is forgotten. Lily bores us all with long lists of medical statistics from her textbook lying open on the table, and I try not to lament over loosing Glade. There has to be a way to make things up to her. Maybe she won't hate me after all.

Who am I kidding? She made Coal Schneider's life hell when the school principal got him to confess that it was Glade who glued all the girl's room toilet lids down. That was a year ago, and she still refuses to acknowledge his existence. No, if I'm ever going to get in her good graces again in this lifetime, I'm going to have to do something drastic…something impressive.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Reed Young is a bulbous headed side-show freak. Deserving or not, how can Glade ignore me for him? It is punishment beyond justification, and I can't help but resent the sight of them walking down the main causeway through Merchant's Square. Glade, with her arm through Reed's angular, toothpick limb looking pleased as if she isn't being escorted by a toad. It makes my gut sick and burn with jealousy. She is doing it on purpose; she knows that I am stuck at the bakery sweeping flour into gritty piles and sweating under the heat of the giant ovens. Why else would she parade past with that amphibian on a leash three times and stop to point out the decaled icing on the cakes in the display window? Like I can't see right through that pointed slap in the face. Fine, if she wants to play that way, let her. I have a play of my own in mind.

Waiting for an opportunity to slip out the back of the entry and into the deserted Gallery next door, I listen for Mom in her office on the second floor. Nothing, no visitors in the main room out front, Kit is even absent from her desk in the back. Moving fast, I jot a hasty note on a scrap of paper, fold it, and pierce it with an arrow from a display rack behind the gallery counter. Picking up Mom's ceremonial Mockingjay bow used during the Great Rebellion, I move to the open door facing the street. I keep to the shadows, peeking around the corner to where I last saw Glade and Reed pass in the direction of the mayor's house. I will have to be quick, my shot true, or she will miss it.

Aiming with a steady eye, I wait until Reed pauses to take his leave at Glade's front door. She gives him a sappy smile which I loathe, and I release the message-carrying arrow into the street. It pierces the space between them, cutting the air and landing deep in the whitewashed wood of the door frame above Reed's shoulder. He jumps back in surprise and trips down the stair, nearly landing on his rear end in the dirt. Glade barely startles, and I don't miss the pleased grin pulling at the side of her mouth even from that distance. She yanks the arrow free with one swift tug and I wait, watching as she reads the words I wrote there.

_I set my snares Saturday, with or without you._

Those sea green eyes glint under the sun as she glances up and meets my own. Knowing exactly where the arrow flew from, she has no trouble finding me. I know from her expression that come Saturday, I will not set my snares alone.

I have given up using the blasted crutch to get around. It is nothing but a bother and it slows me down. Lily scolds me for not following her orders, but I don't care. I can't very well hike in the woods tomorrow while leaning on a cumbersome support, so I might as well get along without it now.

School has been much more enjoyable since I have Glade's attention again. My competition is fuming, but what do I care for the feelings of Reed Young? His dirty looks across the classroom are nothing compared to Glade's brilliant smiles over whispered discussion for Saturday's plans. We have it all worked out. Glade has enlisted her friend Bonnie to vouch for her absence, claiming the two of them have plans to spend the day together sewing party dresses for the upcoming school dance. Easy enough for them, but my deception will be a little trickier.

I lay stretched out on the couch in the sitting room late Friday night running my list of lies through my head for the morning. I would rather be in my own bed upstairs, but Lily is still insisting I not exert my leg so that the stitches have time to heal. I think she is more worried about her handiwork maintaining its purpose and not failing her intellect than the well-being of my healing wound. Much to my annoyance, she has been taking daily photos of the its progress to show her healing instructor at school. At this point I am actually entertaining the idea of staging a small accident involving our cat just to give her a new patient to obsess over.

It is past midnight, but Mom and Dad are still up. Dad is at his easel in his study deep in a painting he has been working on for over a month. Mom is at the desk where she has been writing but, for the past hour, gotten little more done than watch Dad paint with her mind on other things. I can see through the open door with the light from a lamp above Dad's canvass the only lamp still burning in the darkened house.

I turn uncomfortably on the lumpy cushions and debate taking the stairs to my own bed despite Lily and her misguided intentions. My thoughts return to the plan at hand and I run through it one more time. I decide not to enlist Kit this time around, opting for the weakness and poor moral fiber of Haymitch Abernathy instead. Undoubtedly Kit has been warned about my banishment from the woods and is under strict instructions to keep me in line. I have already mentioned to my parents that I will spend the day at the Gallery, relieving Lily of her usual Saturday duties of handling tourists and customers stopping in to buy Dad's paintings, Mom's guides, and her bottled herbal medicinal remedies. The less Kit knows about my plans, the better. At least then she will not need to lie for me again if it comes down to it.

Dad always makes it a point to stay away from the Square on Saturday, preferring a day of solitude at home baking and painting over his usual duties in town. Mom often does too, only venturing into the Hob for an occasional barter at the vendor stalls.

My plan is to head to work early in the morning before they can ask too many questions. Enter Haymitch with a plan to get me out of there with little to no suspicion to my whereabouts. Our agreement is that he will arrive shortly after and insist on my assistance in tracking down a bothersome fox that has been causing chaos with his flock of homegrown geese. In exchange for the diversion, I will give him my entire game take from my snares tomorrow. He has no use for squirrels or rabbits but knows how to make a good trade for his beloved white liquor. It is a small price to pay, as far as I'm concerned.

But, after dwelling over the plan for three days, I am having a few doubts. Anything could go wrong. Haymitch, although quick with an explanation and fluid with a lie, could forget about our deal entirely in a drunken state and blow the whole thing. Thinking of this, I try to devise an alternative explanation for my absence should all else fail.

"I got a letter from Mother today," Mom's voice carries from the other room and I stop and listen. From where I lay I can see Dad with his back turned toward his canvass, but Mom is out of sight, still seated behind the small desk in front of the window. Dad looks up to show that he is listening but continues to paint without response. "She said the ships returned to District 4 with less than half their catch quotas for the second time. Supplies are getting low. That, along with the drought in 11, leaves Panem's food supply looking scarce."

Dad nods and I can tell he is frowning. I assume that they have forgotten that I am even there for they don't even bother to lower their voices as they usually do when discussing serious matters concerning the Districts. "There are reports of fires in 7 as well," he informs Mom and this is news to her.

"What? How devastating?"

"Devastating enough," Dad sets down his brush and turns away from the canvass. "I got a memo from President Peak's office this morning."

"Did they call you in?"

"Not yet," he shakes his head, "but they will."

"This is bad, Peeta."

"The Capitol has reserve stores in District 2 and 13, but not enough to last the whole winter feeding an entire country. I'm already rationing at the bakery; it looks like we may have to close before Christmas."

"Close?"

"We can't bake bread without flour. Or cakes without sugar, for that matter. If it's as bad as they make it out to be every district will have to go without. I don't want to do it, but I'll have to lay the staff off until supplies replenish."

"Or find them something else to do," Mom responds a-matter-of-factly.

Dad says nothing but nods again, shortly and without promising anything. I know it is what he would like to do. If anyone has the funds to pay a crew of bored bakers for not baking, it is my dad. But I also have never known him to make a promise he couldn't keep and not without serious consideration.

I didn't know that things were really that bad. True, it had been a dry summer all across Panem. Crops in District 11 had scorched under the sun or been pummeled by hail storms frequenting the area. Even we feel the cost here in 12 with streams drying up in the ravines and mountain grasses burning in the Meadow. The game in the woods is also looking notably scarce, thinning out in an attempt to find food before winter. The whole country is suffering, I suppose, but it never occurred to me just how much.

Mom gets up from her seat and moves around the desk, crossing the room to where Dad stands leaning against a cabinet full of paint supplies. Now I know they have forgotten me, as she slips her arms around Dad's middle and eases into him, resting her head on his shoulder. They rarely show affection unless in private, certainly not in front of us kids. Dad pulls her in close and gently rubs the tense muscles in Mom's back until she relaxes with a barely audible sigh.

"They'll call you away for days," she laments the inevitable.

"Most likely."

"To do what? Argue about what you already know? There's no food, not in all of Panem. There won't be until the next harvest, if the weather cooperates even then. There'll be no food anywhere."

"Not south of the Northern Wild," Dad agrees, and it takes Mom a moment to realize what he is implying. She glances up at him with a nit brow of confusion.

"Is that even an option?"

"It's going to have to be. At least I'll make a strong case for it if I have to. It will mean recruiting a team of Panem's best marksmen to hunt whatever game they can find."

"More than just a team," Mom agrees, "an army."

"Who will need a captain…"

There is no need to clarify his meaning this time. Mom knows and so do I. If Panem needs food from the Northern Wild, Mom will be the first in line to go, with bow in hand. And if I have anything say about it, I'll be second to volunteer.

We meet behind my mother's old house in the Seam. Glade is breathless with eyes dancing in nervous excitement. She glances over her shoulder to be sure that no one has spotted us, and I shoulder the bow that I borrowed from the Gallery. Haymitch had come through, and if Kit suspected anything she hadn't shown it. Apparently Bonnie was true to her word too, because Glade and I are on our way to the boundary fence with no one in pursuit.

I lead her down a different path then we took on our previous hunting trip. Bow or not, I don't intend on giving her a second lesson with the arrow today. "I need a little time to heal before you take me out again," I tease, leading the way east, further into the towering firs.

Glade slaps me sharply on the shoulder in disgust but fails to hide a smile. "That was your fault you know it."

"How so?"

"You got in my way."

"I was standing right next to you. I told you to shoot up, not down."

"Well, next time stand behind me then," it is her turn to tease, and her eyes catch mine with a playful challenge. Perhaps I'll reconsider and give her another chance with the bow today after all.

Feeling bold, I reach and take her hand in mine. "This way," I veer off to the right and descend into a dry ravine layered in a thick carpet of dry leaves.

For a quarter of a mile we venture further into the woods. I point out the best places to look for game, how to spot tracks in virtually dry terrain, and where to lay a snare for optimal opportunity.

"What if there are no tracks?" she asks. "If you set one and nothing happens, should you move it? How long do you have to wait? It doesn't hurt them too bad does it?"

"Okay," I stop her, putting up a finger and touching it to her inquiring lips to quiet her. "First of all, shush. There isn't going to be anything to snare if you scare it all away."

"Sorry," she mumbles against my finger and I tap it once again to inform her I am not finished.

"Second, if there are no tracks then think like the animal you are looking to snare. A rabbit is fast but keeps out of the open as much as possible. They like the cool shadows of low lying ferns." I show her what I mean by pointing out a suitable place in which to start. At the base of a towering maple, in a cluster of thick undergrowth, I proceed to show her how to create a perfectly adequate snare out of little more than what we find lying nearby. "The object is to make it nearly invisible," I explain. "Touch it as little as possible and then hide downwind so you leave hardly any scent.

Securing the snare, I take Glade's hand again and move a few yards further east in search of a second location. This time I make her do all the work, giving her step-by-step instructions on how to do it. She is a fast learner and good with her hands, picking it up easily and eagerly. As the sun climbs higher in the cloudless sky, we wind our way through the brush, setting two more snares. Glade has a lot of questions about everything from how to identify animal droppings, species of birds, and edible fungi. I share all I can remember from Mom's teachings and survival guides. There is a lot to learn, but Glade draws it in like a sponge and never complains once of the heat, strenuous hike, or layers of grime we accumulate as we go. For a mayor's daughter she can endure a lot of discomfort.

Late morning, we take a break in the shade with a view of our closest snare in the ravine below. Sitting on a flat surface of protruding rock, I open my small pack I brought from the Gallery and pull out two bottles of water. We drink with deep thirst and break into a bar of chocolate to revive our energy.

"Do you think they've discovered we're gone?" Glade can't help but giggle. I am glad she finds some humor in the situation. I, on the other hand, hope I fall to my death before my parents ever find out that I am out here again. I pass her a shrug as if it doesn't bother me in the least if they do and break off another section of chocolate for her to take.

Glade reaches for it and lets her fingers linger against the tips of mine before pulling away and licking the melting candy from her thumb. "My dad overreacts to everything. Sorry for his fit he threw the other night. He just doesn't understand."

I shake my head. "Neither do my parents. And they should too, after all they've done."

"It's not fair is it?" Glade squints under the sun with a disgusted frown. "I mean, I'm glad we don't have the Hunger Games, but you would think they would remember how important it is to be able to protect ourselves. Just because we're not dropping our names into a death lottery every year doesn't mean we're safe exactly." She watches the distant snare for movement a moment before glancing back at me. "Well, I guess your mom knows that. She's trying to prepare people. She taught you."

"Yeah," I agree. "My dad knows it too, I guess. He just doesn't think I can handle anything on my own yet."

Glade laughs sardonically at this. "Please, look what you can do!" Waving back at our trail of snares, she makes her point. "And you can shoot anything with a bow, almost as good as your mom."

Shrugging modestly, I don't deny it. "You will too, when I'm done teaching you."

"Well, what are we sitting here for then?" She tosses back her water bottle and picks up the bow I had lain nearby. I involuntarily move away with caution as she pulls out an arrow, and her eyes glint with suppressed amusement. "I'm not going to hurt you."

"Your track record suggests otherwise."

"Alright, you do it then, if you're that paranoid." She hands the bow back with a sharp arrow tip pointed right at me. I carefully dislodge it before she can inadvertently release it into any of my vital organs and get to my feet.

"What do you propose I shoot exactly?"

"Anything," Glade shrugs and looks to the treetops stretched out in a canopy above us. "I would love a tender bit of fowl for lunch, if you can manage it."

If I can manage it? Who does she think she is talking to? Resetting the arrow, I position the bow and train my ears to listen. The tree limbs are full of chatter and rustle of wing, poor underfed birds from the north, moving south in search of warmth, shelter, and sustenance. Not exactly what I call fine dining, but the lady gets what she wants.

Narrowing in on a single, glassy eye peering through the dry leaves overhead, I prepare to shoot.

"Wait," Glade stops me with a cool hand on my arm. Lifting my elbow, she slips in and settles with her back against my chest. "If I can't shoot, I want to at least feel the release." She places a hand over mine on the bow and raises it back into position. Leaning her head securely against my shoulder, Glade waits as I draw the taught string back and reset the arrow. "Which one?" she whispers with bated breath.

"There," I aim once more and point out the bird still sitting halfway up a tree less than ten feet in front of us. I can actually feel the excitement waft off of her, and am glad she cannot see the grin I fail to hide. "Ready?"

Glade nods ever so slightly, and I release the arrow, sending it flying with a direct hit deep into the unsuspecting eye of our prey. Releasing a nervous giggle, Glade actually claps in glee and jumps on her toes in her excitement. "That's so amazing! Let me try!"

"Maybe…" I hold the bow out of her reach, "maybe next time, alright? Let's focus on finding your bird." Grabbing up my pack, I lead the way to where I believed the bird to have dropped. Finding it lying amid the twisted roots at the base of the tree, I yank out the arrow and clean it quickly with some dry leaves. "There you go," holding the scrawny bird up by the neck. "Hope you weren't too hungry."

Glade makes a disgusted face without moving to relieve me of the limp rag of feathers. "What happened to it? There's not a bit of meat on it."

"She's not from around here," I explain blandly, tucking my arrow back in the sheaf and shouldering the bow. "This bird is from the North."

"The Wild?"

I nod as we begin walking back to check our snares. It is almost noon. We need to get moving if we are going to get back in good time.

"Are they migrating already?" Glade keeps up, slipping her fingers through mine once again.

"Have to," I tell her, remembering what Mom and Dad had been discussing the night before. "They're looking for food." Things must be worse than even Dad thinks. "Has your father told you about the wild fires in District 7?"

"No," Glade looks surprised. "He doesn't tell me anything."

"Then you don't know about the droughts in 11 or the poor fishing in 4."

She stops walking briefly to look at me, confirming that I am right. Nodding, I gently pulling her forward and reach our first snare, finding it empty.

"I heard my parents talking about it. Apparently there are food shortages all over." I realize something else, however. The bird in my hand is a disturbing warning. Dad thinks that only the Districts are suffering from lack of food, but it seems as though it's happening all over. So much for sending archers north to hunt; there won't be anything there worth bringing home. "My dad was saying that he's already having supply shortages at the bakery. If they don't figure something out, all the Districts will be on rations this winter. We won't be the only ones out here scrounging for food before long."

"That's funny," Glade laughs shortly but with little humor. "Dad is so sure that there is no reason for us to train in survival tactics. Wait 'til there's no more food to buy, then he'll be begging me to run to the woods and shoot him some dinner."

"Hopefully there'll be something left to shoot."

Three out of our five snares hold game when we find them, which I count as a decent hull. There are two rabbits and a squirrel, all with more meat on their bones than that ridiculous bird. Things might be dry around here, but at least they had found something to eat over the summer.

Showing Glade how to start a fire with a few twigs, dry leaves, and a piece of flint, I skin one of the rabbits and skewer large chunks of meat to roast over the flames. That, with some blackberries we find in a thicket, a handful of acorns, and our leftover chocolate, we make a fine noonday meal. Fresh air and exercise always deepen the appetite, and we eat every bit of that rabbit.

"I don't think I've ever tasted anything so good," Glade closes her eyes and relishes the taste, sucking the grease from her fingers and sitting back with a sigh. "Is it always better when you catch it and cook it yourself?"

"Mostly," I smile. "You should try fried fish straight from the stream. Now that's good."

"Next time," she opens her eyes and meets mine with a smile of her own. "I'm thinking next Saturday. I want to see that lake you keep telling me about, the one your mom always took you to when you were little. Do you really know how to swim?"

"Of course," I nod. "I can teach you that too, if you want." I really, truly hope she does.

The idea seems to thrill and give her qualms at the same time. "Yeah... I mean, yes." She makes a decision, convincing herself that it was imperative that she learn such a vital skill. "I can swim."

I give her an encouraging nod, fighting to hide my amusement. "We'll see."

Burying the remains of the rabbit and dousing the fire, we find a small stream and wash up. I want to check the snares one more time in the hopes to bring Haymitch more game to trade. One rabbit and a squirrel wouldn't award him much liquor. Checking the time by the sun, I pick up the pace a little. The Gallery closes at two on Saturdays and Dad expects me home right after. It would not do to be late.

"So what happens if all the Districts run out of food?" Glade asks.

"Dad thinks they should form a hunting party, send them north to bring back whatever game they can find."

"But if the birds can't even find food…" she hits on my own concerns and our gaze meets in understanding. "Well," Glade shrugs with some optimism, "let's just hope we don't run out then."

_Yeah, let's hope. _

The first of the last two snares is untouched and we quickly move on.

"You know, it might be a good idea to tell more about all this," Glade continues with a nonchalant wave of her hand. "The kids at school I mean. I know that a lot of people have bought your mom's books for the medicinal cures and recipes and such but, other than a few of the men, no one hunts. I bet many of our classmates would like to learn. I know Reed would."

Reed, I cringe and my jaw tightens. I just bet he wants to learn. Put a bow in that chump's hands and the whole District will need to duck and cover. I wouldn't teach him so much as how to carry a bow, much less shoot it. "Yeah, maybe…" I respond vaguely and bend to check the last snare where it is hidden in the brush.

Glade catches my incredulity and purses her pouty lips in a mocking smile. "He doesn't like it when I talk about you to him either."

"Why would he?" I ask shortly, pulling a limp skunk carcass free from the snare. "No one likes to look bad."

"Oh really?" she scoffs, fully enjoying the effect she is having on me. "You think you're that great, Sage Mellark? You think you're better than Reed?"

"Think it? I know it. When was the last time you've seen him bag one of these?" I hold up the skunk and make my point.

"Yes," Glade rolls her eyes. "You should be so proud of your stinky pelt."

"Hey, this'll bring a good price. Along with the rabbit, the squirrel…and your plump little bird…" I am making fun of her now, and the teasing only draws a further sparkle in her eyes. I take a step closer and lessen the distance between us, leaning against the rough bark of a nearby tree and holding her gaze without blinking. Those ruby, red lips never looked so inviting and I feel her move in response, waiting for me to make the first move. Brushing a stray lock of hair away from her flushed cheek, I tuck it behind her ear and touch my lips to hers.

She tastes sweet, like blackberries and sunlight. With the perfect amount of pressure, she reacts to my touch and kisses back, and I am in heaven. Dad can be waiting for me at the edge of the woods with a lifelong banishment from hunting and I won't care. This moment, right here, makes it all worth the risk.

Glade is the first to pull away, and I really wish she hadn't. If feels like an ending to a perfect day and I don't want it to be over quite yet. She can tell my hesitancy to let her go and laughs, placing a soft finger on my lips with a knowing smile. "We better get back. I told Bonnie I would stop over before I go home."

"Okay," I give in but not before stealing one last quick kiss to top it off.

"Well, you do have an advantage over Reed on something," she teases. "You're a much better kisser than he is."

"You've kissed Reed?" The warmth of the moment is immediately sucked out of the air, but it isn't what Glade says that stops me cold. The disturbing vision of Reed's pug face stuck to Glade's instantly vanishes as I am suddenly aware that we are not alone. The moment my ears become alert to the movement in the undergrowth my hand shoots out for my bow, whipping it to my shoulder. Stepping in front of Glade, I whisk around while jamming an arrow into place.

I am too late. In the flash of a dark shadow, a beast unlike any that I have ever seen springs from the trees and collides like a dead weight against my chest. Knocked off my feet, I fall sharply to the dense earth as Glade screams and cowers against the tree. My bow is gone, flying out of reach in the brush with a thud, and I feel the agonizing pain of a heavy jaw sink its teeth into my shoulder.

Yelling in pain, I struggle to push the hairy, sweaty monster off. The iron smell of blood fills my senses, and I struggle to breath. It is a type of dog, I think, though I can't tell. It is bigger than a wolf and is crushing me under weighty, sharp claws. Its coat is a thick and matted mess, slick with something that smells like death. Glade is screaming my name hysterically, and I am dying, losing consciousness under the stench and searing pain as the knife-like canine teeth attempting to rip away my flesh.

Searching frantically over my free shoulder, I manage to find my sheaf of arrows, crushed under my back but still accessible. Yanking free an arrow, I clutch it in a damp fist, turn it around and hope I don't miss. With all the strength I have, I thrust the arrowhead deep into the creature's eye and feel its hold slacken slightly on my shoulder. A low growl emits from its throat, and I push from beneath, trying to roll out from under it. Despite its weight, I can feel a row of skeletal ribs beneath the grisly fur. Another starving animal just looking for a meal.

Arrow shaft sticking out of its oozing eye socket, the beast re-strengthens its bite on my ripped and bleeding shoulder, sending a fresh wave of pain through my chest. I can't see her, but Glade is still there, a few feet away and paralyzed by the scene. _Run_, I want to yell at her, but don't have the voice to do so.

Turning my head to find her, desperate to get her to understand, it is then that I get a good look at the animal. Not an animal, not really. A monster, yes, but certainly not canine. Where there should have been a snout clamped tightly to my tearing muscle, there is merely a gaping mouth with a set of jagged, broken fangs. Almost human-like, the twisted features of its face give my stomach a jolt that has nothing to do with the pain. I stare in horror, not sure that what I am seeing is even real. Before I can even think, a second arrow rips into the side of the beast's skull, ripping it open and knocking the animal to the ground.

Glade continues to scream, crouched against the tree with her arms up defensively around her streaming face. I can't move, but can hear the crash of feet through the woods and know by the arrow sticking out of the animal's head that my mother is there.

She is the first to reach me. Breathing hard from the run and escalated fear, she has a dangerous look in her eyes. A flash of steel glances against a ray of sunlight, and I numbly watch as she attacks the beast with a long, thin blade. With quacking hands, she mutilates the lifeless carcass as if it were still a threat, crying soundless tears from dilated pupils. She is scaring me, but I don't know how to stop her.

"Katniss!" Dad appears at a run, slowed down by his old leg wound. "Katniss, stop!" Grabbing her arms, he yanks her away from the bloody mess in the grass and strikes a blunt blow to her fingers, getting her to release the knife. "Stop," he commands through her indiscernible, panicked cries. "It's not one of them. Katniss, listen!" Dad forces her to look at him and understand. "It's not! Look, look at it!" Turning her head, he points out the face of the beast.

After a moment, Mom's breathing slows and she relaxes slightly. "I thought—"

"It's a mutant," Dad doesn't deny it, "but not the same. This is different. They killed off the rest, remember? This is different."

"Why?" Mom shakes her head. "How did it get here? There isn't supposed to be any mutants left."

"I know," Dad looks grim, standing to his full height and looking down at the beast with unmasked fear in his eyes. They shift and find mine suddenly and change to renewed urgency. "Haymitch!" he yells over his shoulder and more running feet approach through the brush.

Haymitch appears along with Lily looking flushed and disheveled with mussed hair all damp with sweat. She goes pale at the sight of my lying in that blood and gore, reaching with fumbling fingers for a pack on her shoulder and moving in to staunch the flow.

Haymitch also stops short but isn't looking at me. The sight of the mutant brings a steely expression to his face that is worse than seeing the fear in both my parent's. "Where the hell did that come from?" he growls through clenched teeth.

"The Wild," Dad responds and meets his eyes, speaking more without words and with grim meaning.

Mom is still shaking but manages to find my hand and squeezes it tightly. "Are you okay?"

I try to assure her that I am, but feel nauseas and close to blacking out again. Unable to give her more than a short nod, I clamp my mouth shut tight and fight the urge to vomit.

Glade hasn't moved, though she is no longer screaming. I can hear her ragged breath where she continues to sit hunched against the trunk of the tree. Haymitch calls back the way that they came, and it is the mayor who runs upon the scene next. He is accompanied with a few of the townspeople, all carrying different, crudely made weapons or expensive looking firearms that to appear to have never been fired by their owners.

Mayor Orwell's eyes bulge creating a very fish-like appearance as he struggles to speak with a gapping, dumbstruck mouth. "Mellark…what is this? Glade!" he spots his daughter and sprints to the tree, avoiding the dead mutant's body and looking horrified by the bloody mess. "What have you done?" Grabbing Glade by the arms, he pulls her to her feet and drags her away. Too traumatized to argue, she clings to him with fresh tears spilling from her face. The independent rebel with a determined plan to survive the world crumbles in an instant and clutches to the safety of her father.

Our eyes meet and I can't blame her. Right now I don't want anything to do with those woods or how to survive in them. I wish I have the luxury of holding tight to my mother and not letting go. Sucking in a sharp breath, I try not to scream as Lily attends to my shoulder. There is no relieving chance of blacking out now. The pain is too intense and won't let me go that easily.

"Don't move," Mom leans in and brushes the hair from my damp forehead with a bloody finger. "We'll get you home, just don't move."

She doesn't have to worry; I can't even if I try.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

I messed up big time, and I know it. I wouldn't blame Dad for taking away my hunting privileges for life, but he doesn't say a thing about it. Neither does Mom, and my parents' lack of anger has me more worried than if I had received the tongue lashing I deserve. Tucked securely into bed with a stiff and bandaged shoulder after nightfall, I force myself to stay awake through a drug induced fog and listen through the thin walls to Mom and Dad's hushed conversation in their own room next door. What has them distracted isn't my blatant disobedience or even the fact that I nearly got mauled to death by some fanged creature foreign to our woods. It is that the beast in question should never have existed at all.

"They promised they were all destroyed," Mom argued, failing to keep her angry tone down.

"We're talking about the Capitol," Dad argues sarcastically. "They've promised a great deal. Besides, they said they were taken care of, no one ever said they were destroyed."

"Why wouldn't they?" The springs on the mattress on Mom's side of the bed squeaks, betraying her agitation more. "Who on earth thought it was a good idea to keep any of them alive?"

"It wasn't one of ours," Dad points out. "It looked more like a human than a dog, like…like a man half transformed into a wolf. I don't think it came from the Capitol, at least not recently."

"From one of the arena ruins?"

"Most likely, though I can't remember seeing one like that in any of the old footage." Dad thinks about it, and Mom is quiet. "Doesn't mean there wasn't; we may have missed it or forgotten…"

"Haymitch didn't recognize it either," Mom says. "His memory of the Games is better than ours."

"It doesn't matter where it came from. What I want to know is if it's the only one." Dad hits on the fear that all three Victor's had been dwelling on since they carted me home on a stretcher. None of them said anything in front of the rest of us, but I could tell they were thinking it. The Hunger Games aren't something that our family talks about out of principle, but I've seen enough from Dad's old haunting paintings, Mom's survival guides, and school history books to know that mutants were often created as a way of torture for the participants. I also know they were a strong weapon used by the Capitol during the Uprising. I know this because Mom often wakes up screaming after having nightmares about them, even now.

But they are supposed to be gone, every one of them. Taken down, rounded up, and caged. It was Haymitch who told me the story of the massive gas chamber built in District 2 where they carted in all sorts of foul beasts thought up under the sick direction of the oppressive ex-President Snow and his creative team. Lizards, birds, trackerjackers, twisted inbred overgrown cats with amphibian armor and cobra fangs… I never knew if I should believe him or not, but the vindictive look in Haymitch's red-rimmed eyes when he told me of the awful screeching that went up when the chamber began to fill with a deadly gas…and then the silence that followed…that was honest enough.

They should have all been destroyed, just like Mom said. But then where did that…that thing, come from? The face reappears in my mind's eye in the dark, and I cringe. Dad's description is right, far too human to be all animal, far too vicious to be all human. And it was starving. Like everything else, it was looking for a meal far from home because home didn't have food any more. If it survived this long without venturing out of bounds, what had it been eating? And was it alone?

The idea that I had put Glade in such harm's way does nothing to dispel the sick feeling of guilt building in my chest. She was horrified and in shock when we returned to the Village. Mayor Orwell whisked her away to be checked over by a doctor and given a sedative. He threw out threats to our entire family, Haymitch included, all the way back. He would have Dad's job, he promised. He would ensure that no one set foot in any Mellark place of business again. The townspeople would eject Peeta Mellark from the Council and find a replacement for his representative position in the Capitol. "I'll fill it myself!" Orwell volunteered with bulging eyes and a purple face. Even in my state of pain, I despised the pompous sight of him. "You're done in this District, Mellark! You and your wife both!"

Both my parents managed to ignore him, too focused on me to care. Haymitch did, however, throw out a few choice words which set Orwell to huffing and puffing with nothing foul enough to retort in return.

Glade caught my eye before being led away toward home. I saw the fear and worry there and felt a little revived by it. She didn't hate me like her father did. She recognized my attempt to protect her and was grateful for it. I just wish the mayor saw things the way his daughter did. If his threats held any weight I will be responsible for destroying my family's reputation in the District. If that happens then we might as well pack up and leave. What chance of a future will I have with Glade then?

"Where did you and Haymitch put the body?" Mom breaks through my thoughts, and her voice is calmer, sounding tired. I don't catch on to what she is referring to at first, but then realize she means the mutant. So that is where Dad disappeared after helping me into bed once we reached home. He and Haymitch brought the creature into the Village.

"His basement," Dad told her. "We'll put it on ice at the station tomorrow for the trip to the Capitol."

"You really think it's a good idea for him to go?"

I am confused again, thinking Mom is still talking about the beast.

"He'll be fine," Dad replies, covering a yawn. "They have better healers there than even Lily."

"What about school?"

Then it clicks; they're talking about me. I'm going to the Capitol?

"I'll hire him a tutor. A good one. One that will keep him out of more trouble than if he were here. He needs to go. I don't know, but maybe he'll learn something. At any rate, he won't be tempted to hunt and maybe Orwell can relax a little."

"Orwell can't relax."

"Well, I need him to at least calm down. Maybe a few weeks of my absence—"

"And Sage's…"

"And Sages… Maybe that will help." Dad doesn't sound as sure as his words suggest.

"I don't like that that man has the power to banish my son from his home." The edge to Mom's voice returns, and I can't help but smile. No pig-headed mayor will ever scare her from leaving her District.

"He's not banishing him," Dad is a little more practical. "We just don't need things to get worse than they already are."

Where Mom's sentiment is encouraging, Dad's is a slap in the face. He blames me for all of this, I know it. And even though I can't deny that he has the right, it still stings. What is life in the Capitol going to be like with him for the next however many weeks? Is he going to lock me in a room with some bug-eyed scholar under surveillance to ensure I don't run off and attack his reputation further? If that's the case then I refuse to go. I'll run off to the woods and hide, mutants or not.

"You realize how unfair this is, don't you?" Mom voices my feelings exactly. "It's you two that Orwell has a problem with and you get to hide out in the luxury of the Capitol, leaving me here to defend your good name."

"It's your name too," Dad argues with a touch of childish humor.

"Ha!" Mom scoffs, not amused. "And if you want it to stay that way you won't take your time wining and dining with politicians. Get back here fast, before Orwell enlists an angry mob to break down our door."

"He'd be foolish to try that with you standing behind it with a bow."

Mom laughs, and I lose their conversation in muffled dialogue I can't make out. I'm not listening anymore, however. All I can think about is that in the morning I will have to take a train out of 12 bound for the Capitol, leaving Glade behind. I haven't properly taught her to shoot yet, haven't even trained her how to defend herself with a knife. What if that mutant isn't the only one? What if the boundary fence isn't enough to keep out a pack of starving animals desperate for food? Any animals, not just supposed mutants… It is good that my mother is here, and Haymitch…and the other men and woman who have taken Mom's guidance and training seriously, mastering their own abilities with a bow. I just hope it will be enough when the time does come that we need it. And I hope I'll be back before it happens.

Dad calls for a car just before noon the next day. They announced what I already know at breakfast, filling me in on the details of our trip. Dad had been called in to the Capitol once the President was made aware that a mutant had attacked and been killed just outside District 12. All the representatives from each District are being called in for extensive meetings on the state of the economic downturn, growing natural disasters, and to discuss the meaning behind the appearance of the mutant. I am to join Dad under the pretense that the Capitol research team will want to see my wounds and I will remain to act as an assistant of sorts to Dad while he attends the meetings. So I won't spend all my time cooped up with some lousy tutor, only about half. Although attending age-long meetings and playing Dad's lapdog doesn't sound any more appealing.

Mom spends the morning helping me pack for at least two weeks at the Capitol. I ask if she thinks it will take that long, and she replies rather dishearteningly that it will probably be more. "Nothing as serious as a country-wide drought is discussed in a day," she explains. "Add that to yesterday's attack and the President will have the Representatives grumbling for a month."

"A month?" I groan, dropping a load of textbooks into a half-full travel trunk at my feet.

"Don't worry," Mom laughs. "Your father will make sure they keep on track. If he doesn't…" she looks up over a pile of folded t-shirts in a suitcase. "Well, I'll hop a train and bring you home myself."

It is a lame promise, but makes me feel slightly consoled nonetheless. Turning back to my closet for more clothes, Mom tucks a stray stand of hair back into her loose braid with a frown of concentration. My shoulder is aching from sitting upright for so long, and I grimace while reaching for a few more items to add to my growing pile of possessions I want to take on the train. It will be a long ride; I hope Lily can slip me a little more pain reliever before I go.

"What did they look like?" I ask before I lose my nerve, glancing up to catch Mom's reaction. Her hand pauses on a shirt hanging on a hanger, and she hesitates before looking at me with an unreadable expression. It is better than immediate rejection, and I keep it up before she shuts me down. "Which Games did they use them in?"

I don't actually think she'll answer; Mom never likes to talk about her past with anyone but Dad. So when she removes the shirt from the closet, walks back to the bed and folds it carefully into the suitcase and sits down, I hold my breath and wait.

"They were wolves…I guess," she tells me. "Dog like creatures created to kill. They did kill. But they were worse than just dogs because they had eyes… eyes like humans."

The idea is sickening, but not as bad as I expected. Not as bad as a wolf with a whole human face. My expression betrays as much and Mom explains further. "Eyes of the other tributes, of the kids we already had to watch die." Or of the kids they had to kill, she means. I get it now, and swallow a lump in my throat, understanding why she never told me before. It had sometimes annoyed me that she wouldn't allow us kids to watch any of the old footage or research the old Games more deeply. After yesterday, I'm beginning to understand why.

"The first Games," Mom answers my second question, returning to our packing. "Our second time through the arena, at the Quarter Quell, they had mutants too. Monkeys, mockingjays…but they were different. I thought…" she breaks off this time with a slight shake of her head, not wanting to continue with that line of thinking anymore. I get what she was going to say though. When she saw that thing attack me, she thought it was one of those dogs come back to kill me…to kill her.

I let it drop as well and finish tossing random items into my trunk without any real plan or need for most of it. I am tempted to sneak a bow with a supply of arrows but know that it would just get me in deeper with Dad than I already am. I'll just have to put them out of my mind for a while and hope that this trip doesn't take as long as Mom thinks it will. Maybe if things calm down between now and my return they will loosen up a little and I can take back a few privileges.

When the car arrives, Mom helps me down the stairs where Lily meets me with a confusing list of instructions on how to care for my wound while en route to the Capitol. Shoving a roll of clean bandages, a bottle of pain reliever, and a tube of antibiotic into a side pocket of my bag, she attempts to explain how best to keep it clean and when to change the wrappings. Mom gently shoves her aside and reminds her that the staff on the train will have all the necessary supplies and know-how to assist me if needed.

Dad takes my luggage and adds it to his in the back of the vehicle before hugging Lily at the kitchen door and kissing Mom goodbye. "We'll call from the Capitol."

She nods and reaches for me, cupping my face in her cool hands and meeting my eyes with a scrutinizing gaze. "Be good," she instructs. "Take it easy on your dad."

_I will if he does…_ "Yeah, Mom," I refrain from rolling my eyes. Hugging her with a wince against the pain in my shoulder, I say goodbye to Lily next and head reluctantly to the car. I am surprised to find Haymitch in the front seat next to the driver and wonder if he is going with us.

"Just as far as District 6," he says when I ask, but doesn't explain why. I think it better not to ask as Haymitch seems a little worse for wear this morning. I imagine part of it is that Dad is still upset about his involvement with me being in the woods yesterday. Their words were rather strained while getting me home on the stretcher, and I imagine Dad had a few more choice phrases when they were alone retrieving the mutant's body.

This reminds me that we will have another passenger on board with us on this trip and I wonder where they have stashed it since moving the creature from Haymitch's basement. Hoping it isn't wrapped up in the trunk, I glance around warily and settle into the back seat as Dad slides in beside me and tells the driver we're ready to go.

We wave one last time at Mom and Lily and head to the station on the other side of town. Driving through the center of Merchant's Square, I look for any sign of life at the mayor's house but find the windows dark and empty. I didn't expect to see Glade again before I left, but felt lousy that she wasn't there waiting to catch a glimpse of me nonetheless. The image of Orwell having locked her away in some foul corner of their house to rot crosses my imagination, and I loathe the man even more.

Since it is Sunday there is little traffic at the station when we arrive. A five car speed air rail waits to depart as soon as we board and a team of efficient crew members appear out of nowhere, grabbing our luggage and disappearing into a baggage car as fast as they arrive. Dad leaves us a moment to duck into the station building to speak with the manager before we leave while Haymitch disappears to plant himself in the bar car.

I am about to board when I am distracted by a waving hand behind the corner of a small outbuilding beside the station. Glade pokes her head around the worn siding and glances warily toward the train, calling my name in a hoarse whisper. Looking around myself, I back off the step and rush over.

"Hey," she smiles in relief.

"Hey," a little surprised to see her there, I can't help but show my delight that she is. "I didn't think I would see you."

"I heard your dad is leaving today and found out from Lily that you're going too."

_Lily?_ When had she spoken to her?

Glade catches my confusion and shrugs. "I called your house last night hoping to talk to you but she said you were sleeping."

I wasn't, but wouldn't have been allowed to talk anyway, so I let it go.

"I'm sorry, Sage," Glade looks fearful again, her eyes actually looking moist from emotion. "We would have never been out there if I hadn't insisted."

"I invited you, remember?" I correct her, not about to let her do that to herself.

"Yeah, but it was me who really wanted to go. Now you're hurt again…" she reaches up and touches my shoulder softly, drawing away quickly as if afraid to cause me any more pain. "That thing…it was going to get me if you hadn't…"

"It would have gotten both of us if Mom hadn't shown up."

Glade just shakes her head as if reprimanding me for contradicting her. "And now they're making you leave. It's all my fault."

"Forget it," I reach out and take her hand. "I'm fine, and I'll only be gone for a few weeks. Dad's not that mad. We're going to figure out why that mutant was here in the first place and make sure that more don't come within the Districts."

"More?" Glade's eyebrows nit in concern, and I realize I have said too much. "There are more?"

"No," I shake my head, glancing back toward the train to see if Dad has returned yet. "Or, we don't know. But we're going to find out and try and fix the whole drought problem too. Don't worry, Glade," I try and reassure her as Dad steps out of the station house and catches my eye. "I'll…I'll see you when I get back."

"Call me," she grips my fingers tightly before letting go.

I promise her I will and, even though Dad is watching, lean in and kiss her quickly goodbye. Running for the train, I briefly meet Dad's gaze and am surprised to find not annoyance, but a trace of humor. He looks beyond my shoulder to where Glade hides halfway behind the edge of the building and gives his head a shake with a small smile. "Get on."

"Yes, sir," I'm not about to smile myself, but am relieved that this at least, he understands.

I find my bags already situated in my sleeping compartment and, as the train gathers speed and leaves the station headed west, I dig out Lily's pain meds and pop a few without aid of water. I am tempted to just lie down and sleep away the miles to the Capitol, but my empty stomach calls for another direction.

Finding the dining car, I ease through the automatic sliding door and put an end to a serious conversation my father is having with Haymitch just inside. They are seated on opposite sides of a square table in the center of the room. There are place settings for half a dozen and food enough for twenty more. If the Districts are having such troubles with supply shortages, perhaps they should all board a train. This meal alone looks as though it could feed our Village for three days.

Dad and Haymitch try and pass off the awkward interruption as if they were talking of nothing important, and I glance from one to the other as I take a seat at the end of the table. Were they discussing the mutant? The famine? Me?

"Kinda cuttin' it close catching the train," Haymitch passes me a significant look over the rim of his glass.

Great, I give Dad a look of my own, thanks a lot.

He merely shrugs with a small grin, and Haymitch busts out laughing. "All this trouble over the mayor's daughter? Seems a bit cliché, don't you think?"

"Age old story," Dad agrees, casually buttering a roll.

"Like father like son," Haymitch concludes, and I frown at them both before filling my plate without a response. Rarely am I ever compared to my dad, unless it's in looks, and I'm not so sure I care for it coming from Haymitch. What does he know about my feelings for Glade? What does Dad know, for that matter?

"What was it that you did?" Haymitch spears a plate of sausages to his right with a sharp fork, glancing with amusement at my dad.

"Referring to what?" Dad acts nonchalant but knows what is coming.

"How long was it after you returned from the Capitol?" he waves his hand like it doesn't matter anyway, chewing on sausage and continuing with his narrative. "Granted, I thought she was done, that both of you were and that you had given up."

I realize that he is talking about how Mom and Dad got together and, again, I'm little weirded out by this. Since the past is an avoidable subject in our home, I don't know that much about what led to my parents falling in love. All I do know is that it revolves around the Hunger Games but started much earlier than that for Dad. Mom once told Lily and me when we were kids that there was a time when she believed they would never have married, but Dad was persuasive in changing her mind. I wonder if that is what Haymitch is referring to now.

"This man here," he points across the table, "spent five hours searching for that damn cat of your mother's. What was its name?"

"Buttercup," Dad fails to hide a smile.

"Don't know why," Haymitch shakes his head. "The relationship between that moronic beast and Katniss was demonic at best. You should have just left it to rot in that shaft."

"Shaft?" I ask, more interested than I should have been.

"At the old mines," Dad informs me. "Buttercup somehow fell and got wedged in. I wouldn't have found him at all if it wasn't for his horrible yowl."

Haymitch has a few more expletives for the cat and its verbal lamentations. Dad appears exasperated with his choice of language but lets it go.

"Who knew that girl cared for that furry monster that much. Bawling like a baby when you brought it up all scratching and growling."

"I still have the scars," Dad mutters. "And she didn't cry," he corrects Haymitch. "If I remember right I think her reaction was more like yours, reproachful and colorful. She hated that cat."

"Which is why she squeezed the life out of it, and you, like a blubbering idiot."

I can't help but laugh at the image and Dad joins me with a chuckle and a shake of his head. "They kind of suited each other's company a little, actually."

"Like a panther coexisting with a wolf," Haymitch mutters. "Whatever, it improved your chances anyway."

"My chances were just fine, thanks," Dad argues.

Haymitch raises his eyebrow at me, insinuating otherwise, and I hide a smile over my plate. "Whatever happened to that miserable feline anyway?"

"Died," Dad informs him. "Fell asleep one night and never woke up."

"How devastating," Haymitch pours himself another glass of wine and pushes away his plate, the food barely touched. "Was it worth it then? Saving the cat to win the girl?"

Dad meets his eye across the table settling back with his own glass. Glancing briefly at me before raising it to his lips, he shrugs slightly. "Isn't it always?"

It is the lack of motion on the rails that wakes me sometime in the night, and it is then that I notice the glare of lights through the half-covered window of my compartment. Sitting up in bed and causing the covers to slip to the floor, I peer through the glass in a drowsy fog and hear the sound of raised voices. We are in District 6, I can tell by the shadowy outline of rooftops surrounding an open slab of concrete before the train depot. Bright electric lamps light up the square, and I make out a tight crowd of people bent over something out of sight lying on the ground at their feet.

I quickly reach for my clothes and slip them on while easing out the door into the hall. It is dark on the train, not even the overhead lamps outside each compartment door are on, and I wonder if they have turned off the power and why. A damp draft drifts along the carpeted floor and chills my bare feet as I make my way toward an open departure door at the end of the train car. Blinded by the piercing spotlights, I wince and put a hand up to shield my eyes. A low lying fog distorts the edges of the scene like a dripping watercolor painting and the air smells heavy with humidity.

The crowd stands less than ten feet from where I stop in the open door, leaning with a hand on the frame. None of them look up from a dark, obscured form on the ground, and I go unnoticed. I realize with some surprise that what they are circled around is a body. Of what or whom, I can't tell, but it is evident that the body is not moving and has been stretched out flat on its back in a stiff line.

I then notice my dad standing to the left at the edge of the circle speaking with a man in a disheveled suit. There are dark stains on the gentleman's button down shirt, blood mixed with mud and soaked with rain. Something bad has happened here; something really, really bad.

I am about to step out of the train to join dad on the depot floor but get pushed aside as Haymitch suddenly appears from behind, shoving me gently out of his way and shouldering by with his small suitcase, jacket under his arm. "Watch out, kid," he grumbles with a grim face. "Stay in the car."

I don't bother listening to him, stepping down and watching him walk briskly towards the crowd. He meets up with Dad and the man in the suit, and all three huddle in hushed conversation. Dad glances up and finds me before I advance any further and quickly takes his leave, shaking brisk hands with the man and making his way over.

"Inside," he nods back at the train and takes my arm.

"What happened?"

"I'll tell you later," he glances back toward the crowd briefly, holding back to allow me to climb into the car ahead of him. "Get in; the train will be leaving again soon."

We were moving on? After seeing that? I really wish someone would tell me what is going on. "What was it?"

"Just move," Dad's voice grows stern, and I do as I'm told.

Waiting in the hall, I watch the door automatically close behind Dad and feel the surge of power return to the train as it prepares to leave the District 6 depot. The lights come to life and emit an eerie orange glow which casts shadows down the length of the car.

"Let's go to the dining car," Dad says, not even suggesting that we head back to bed.

I join him without arguing and discover that I'm hungry. Grateful for a cup of coffee and a large slice of chocolate cake, I settle in at one of the tables and wait for Dad to join me with a steaming cup of his own.

"Haymitch said he was going as far as 6," I get the ball rolling, not about to let Dad avoid the subject at hand. "Is that why? The body?"

He shakes his head in the negative, taking a sip with a grimace against the scalding liquid. "We didn't know, not 'til we stopped. He was going because there were rumors," he explains. "Once everyone heard about your run-in yesterday, a few citizens in 6 came forward and claimed that they had seen some unidentified animal lurking outside their boundaries. No one can give a clear description, so we don't know if they are the same exactly…" he shrugs and sets his mug down on the table cloth.

"Did they catch it?" I ask, wondering if the body at the depot was in fact human.

"Not yet," Dad replies and there is a sudden hardness to his voice which matches the look in his eyes. "The attack happened just hours before we rolled through. A young man in his twenties, he was walking home from town after dark and got jumped not ten yards from his house. His wife heard him call out and came running. Her screams scared off the mutant but not before she saw it eating away at her husband's face. She's pregnant with the man's first child…" Dad stares vacantly at the cup of cooling coffee in front of him. I think he has forgotten that I am there; he would have never been that detailed about something so gruesome before. Either that or he finally thinks I can handle it.

It is horrific, and I am glad that I never got a good look at the body. I can't imagine what the wife went through finding him like that. "Did she say what the mutant looked like?" I ask. "Did she get a better look?"

"It was dark," Dad pulls himself back to the present with a sigh and rubs his temples as if warding off a headache. "She was too distraught to say, but I doubt she got a good look anyway. Doesn't matter, does it? The same beast or not, they're all deadly and need to be found. That's why Haymitch went. He and a few of the other remaining Victors are planning on meeting with the District townspeople to come up with a plan to track it down. Your mom wanted to go," he told me, and I am surprised but shouldn't be. "I told her to wait, let Haymitch go and check things out first. She's needed at home more right now."

_For what?_ I wonder. I can just imagine how that conversation went. Mom's not one to let anyone tell her what to do, not even Dad. What good is Haymitch in tracking down a mutant? I mean, he's a Victor of the Games, yeah, but he's no Mom when it comes to tracking. He's too drunk to see two feet in front of him most of the time.

Dad seems to sense my incredulity and nearly grins, picking up a stray fork and stealing my last bite of cake. "Don't worry, he'll manage just fine. And he'll have a team of experienced hunters to keep him in line. If things get rough they'll call in Mom and she'll jump a train with her bow in a second." This doesn't seem to excite him much, and I get it now. District 12 doesn't really need Mom; Dad just didn't want her to go and insisted she stay. How he had convinced her to do so, I don't know.

"Seems like they're already rough," I point out, going for more cake on the buffet table.

Dad doesn't reply to this, knowing I am right and probably fearing that his wife is already making plans to rush off to District 6 to join the hunt. I don't know what he is so worried about. She can obviously take care of herself, and who better to track down a mutant than her? Dad just frets too much. It's really quite annoying.

"Get your own," I mumble through a mouthful of cake, sitting back down and holding the plate out of Dad's reach as he goes for another jab with his fork.

"Nah," he waves the utensil lazily. "I'm not hungry."

"Yeah, okay," I roll my eyes sarcastically and fork in an oversized bite.

"You shouldn't eat so much before trying to sleep," he admonishes.

I don't respond to this, enjoying my second helping and eating every crumb. We both know that neither one of us is getting any more rest that night, so what did it matter?


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

The Capitol looks different than I remember it. Granted, it's been a few years since Dad last brought us all the way out here, but it's not that. It isn't progress or renovations, it's decay. Smartly dressed decay, I should say. Like some poor attempt to put makeup on an aging doll. All the main streets and courtyards are pristine and well kept, but I can see the cracks in the concrete and chips on the painted stucco. In the car on the way to the president's mansion from the train depot, I catch sight of a few bystreets strewn with neglected refuse, broken gate hinges in front of garden plots dried out in the harsh sun, and evidence of vagabonds using the city as their personal lavatories. Maybe I was too young, but this is not the shining metropolis that I remember.

"Economic hardship always hits the dependent the hardest," Dad murmurs, noting my confusion as we cruise along nearly deserted streets to the golden gates of President Peak's home. "Wealth means nothing if there's nothing to buy."

"Is it really that bad?" I guess being a citizen of 12 has its advantages.

Dad doesn't respond with anything more than a frown, answering my question anyway.

We are greeted by uniformed staff at the door when our transport pulls up. The president is, of course, too preoccupied to meet us personally, but we our shown to our guest rooms just as another car pulls into the courtyard with a diplomat from District 7. Representative Cremini is an old friend of Dad's and they greet each other with a hearty handshake in the hall on our way to east wing of the mansion.

"Just got in myself," Cremini informed him. "Less of a jog than it is for you, you must be worn out." The representative is a large man with a shiny cranium, fully shaved and a bit red from some recent contact with the sun. His jovial eyes appear a little too close together to be called comfortable to meet in polite conversation, and I find myself shifting my glance to the floor when he takes my hand for a tight shake. "Sage, my boy! My God, Peeta, your son has grown hasn't he? Not a boy anymore!" Chuckling deep in his barrel chest, Cremini slaps me soundly on the back with a bit too much familiarity for a man that I've only met a total of maybe three times in my life.

Dad smiles and nods in agreement, covering a laugh at my expense. "I imagine yours have too. How old are they now?"

"Eighteen and twenty," Cremini rolls his eyes. "And the oldest already married. Wish I had known you were bringing the boy, I would have encouraged Persia to make the trip as well." His bushy eyebrows wiggled conspiratorially with a grin.

I attempt a weak, awkward laugh and look for a way out.

"Sage won't have much time for socializing anyway," Dad helps me out. "He's here to have his wounds examined and to assist me during the meetings."

"Of course!" Cremini's eyes widen, moving to my shoulder with interest, "the infamous mutant attack. You're all the Districts are talking about, young man. Or they were, until last night's incident in 6. I heard you were there for that one too."

"Just missed it," Dad shakes his head before nodding at the steward who offers him our room key, having just deposited our luggage just inside. "Haymitch is assisting them now."

"Haymitch," Cremini chuckles appreciatively. "That will be comical at the very least." He offers Dad his hand once again, taking his own key for a room down the hall. "I will see you at the meetings then. Right now I'm going to inquire about a sandwich…and maybe a cold beer. Nice seeing you again, Sage."

"You too," I nod politely, and Dad and I share a look of amusement as Cremini walks away.

Throughout the morning each District Representative makes their appearance at the Mansion and, by noon, they all congregate in the massive dining hall in the north wing for a modest meal. I am not the only 'assistant' accompanying the diplomats. Ms. Shoal, from 4, has her own shadow, as does Gemini Ross from 3. The representative from 2 has his own entourage of duplicates all dressed in dark green suits with severe expressions. Next to them I feel like an imposter and wonder what I am doing here.

The District Council meets in an oval shaped room in a sublevel corner of the mansion, a very dim chamber with a bunker-like feel. Each representative has his or her own desk which line one half of the room in a curving half circle. Each desk faces the president's, a larger scale version of the rest that stands on an elevated platform and is equipped with a very commanding high-backed chair. On the wall behind the desk is a giant tapestry with a detailed map of Panem with colorful descriptions of each District and their dominant trade.

As an assistant I am given a chair against the wall directly behind Dad so I can jump to his aide whenever called upon. So far the only good I've done is retrieve a forgotten folder from our room that turned out not to be there but actually in his briefcase where he had missed it in the first place. Impatiently drumming my fingers on my knee and imagining Glade passing notes with Reed during our Economics class, I begin cursing my poor luck and life in general.

I take to doodling on a pad of lined paper as the Council moves in to hour two of discussing the effects of the drought. Every district has news of food shortages. It seems as if the only area to receive any rain is District 4 and it did little more than cause flooding and mudslides. After a stormy spring with horrible losses in fishing boats, the seaside citizens can't take much more. Representative Shoal attempts to sound positive but there is no denying that things are dire; there just isn't any fish and little means to bring them in regardless.

"Last month's hail destroyed over seventy percent of our crop," District 9 gave his own grim report. "It's the worst season we've had in fifty years. There's no way to recover, there just simply won't be enough to go around. Not even with what we have set aside from last season."

"What about the stores in 13?" President Peaks searches out the stern faced military leader from 13. His eyebrows furrow and it is evident that his news won't be good either.

"We have enough to distribute to each District about a month's worth of provisions. Flour, sugar, nonperishables…it's something, but not enough."

This doesn't go over well with the other council members, and Peaks frowns. "A month?"

"Yes, ma'am," 13 nods unemotionally.

"Well, Council," Peaks leans back in her chair and addresses the entire circle. "I'm eager for suggestions for a solution. Let's hear them." The room, previously buzzing with passing whispers between the representatives, goes silent. Chairs squeak and pens scratch pointlessly at paper. I realize the volume of my own pen and immediately cease scribbling. "Speak up," Peaks insists impatiently. "Someone must have some idea."

Dad leans forward, placing his elbows on his desk, and I realize that he has been waiting for an invitation but politely held back to give his colleagues a chance to speak first.

"Yes, Mr. Mellark?" President Peaks acknowledges him. "I figured you would. Go ahead."

Dad shrugs modestly before beginning. "It's nothing I haven't proposed before. Things may be scarce, but around 12 we have been able to find game and other provisions from the woodlands surrounding our district. Or at least we've found some." At this he swivels his chair around slightly and glances at me. Several eyes around the room follow his gaze, including President Peaks'. "My son has found…what? Rabbit, deer?"

"A little," I nod, feeling uncomfortable with the sudden attention from such a formidable crowd. I sheepishly cover my crude drawing of Representative Cremini's shiny skull and cross-eyes, tucking it out of sight.

"That's not all he's found," Cremini chuckles from down the row of desks and several of his comrades join in, knowing all about my run-in with the mutant.

Dad doesn't deny it, smiling along with the joke and waiting for the humor to subside before continuing. "District 12 isn't the only area where fresh game can be found. Some areas, like 13, 6, and 8 haven't been hit so hard by the drought. There is still edible vegetation to be found, if you know what to look for."

"So your suggestion is to send the citizens on a foraging expedition?" Peaks raises a sharp eyebrow on her angular face.

"In essence," Dad meets her gaze, "yes."

"In mutant infested woods?" Gemini Ross scoffs.

"With skilled marksmen as guides, certainly." Dad isn't put off by her incredulity.

"Offering up your wife for hire, Mellark?" The military bloke from 13 grunts humorously.

"Not quite," Dad responds, "but she'll be thrilled to know you think of her so highly."

"Gentlemen, please," Peaks has heard enough. "The suggestion is a good one, Mellark, but impractical. Ross is right; we can't be responsible for putting inexperienced citizens in harm's way."

"Katniss isn't the only one skilled with a bow," Dad cuts in. "She's also not the only one with knowledge of the nutritional aspects of the forest. People have been buying her guides for years, District 13 uses them in their military training program," he points out. "There are numerous skilled woodsmen in every district. Organize hunting parties, gather supplies and weapons. Put each District in charge of its own survival. It may not solve the problem, but it gives us a chance."

Peaks considers his suggestions, and the Council resumes their murmured conversations. Most seem encouraged by the idea, but still others appear skeptical.

"Yes, but what about the mutants?" This time District 6 speaks up, and I recognize the man who had worn the bloodied suit whom Dad had been conversing with at the train depot in 6. He looks worn out and distressed with heavy bags under his bloodshot eyes. He has every right to be concerned and, remembering the body and the gruesome retelling of its fate, I can't blame him. Just picturing in my own encounter with a mutant makes my own stomach churn.

"We don't know how many are out there," Dad points out. "There may not even be any more mutants to worry about. But even if there is, an arrow can kill them as easily as a deer. We wouldn't send our hunters out unprepared. In fact, my next suggestion would be to send a special unit north…into the Wild."

"The Wild?" Peaks is alarmed once again.

Dad nods, ignoring the grumblings from his peers. "To track down more mutants for one, but mainly to find food…if there's any game left to find."

"Talk about irresponsible," Shoal taps her pen on her desk impatiently, "sending our finest hunters on a suicide mission into the Wild just as winter is coming on. For what, a possibility of finding food? You'll have us believe, Peeta Mellark, that you would send your wife on such a dangerous excursion? Not likely," she sneers sarcastically.

"What decisions Katniss and I make is none of this council's concern," Dad retorts curtly. "But I certainly wouldn't stand in the way of her fulfilling her duty to help protect her country, district, and family. No one should." With this statement, Dad passes a heated glance around the room as if daring the rest of the committee to show anything but dedicated patriotism.

This new look at my normally passive father is a bit alarming. Enthralling, but alarming. I'm not really sure what to think about him and can only watch as he argues his point with a cool head and strong assurance against the council's reservations. But one thing is certain, I like this version of Dad a lot more than the one always so intent on stifling my own enthusiasm most of the time.

"It is evident that the council is split on this," President Peaks interrupts, putting up a hand to silence the debate. "Can we please move on and discuss the most pressing matter at hand? I believe our teams of researchers have been studying the corpse of the mutant since its arrival in the Capitol, correct? What have we learned from their findings so far?"

Dad, having been scribbling something on a piece of memo paper, tears it free, folds it in half, and hands it over his shoulder to me. "Take that back to the room and use the private line to call your mother," he leans in and speaks low in my ear. "Give her that message and get the news from Haymitch. She should know, just ask. Write down what she says and tell her I will call her again this evening. Then stay put," he instructs, turning back to his desk. "I'll find you for dinner."

I nod and pocket the note, standing and slipping out of the room into the cool hall. Getting lost only once, I work my way back to the room, reading the message along the way. It is short and to the point, informing my mother of the lack of support from the Districts for the organized hunt and Dad's confidence that he will gain their approval. Imagining what Mom will have to say about that, I can't help but grin as I pick up the phone.

After another endless morning of listening to the council bicker over food rations and displaced mutants, I am sent to the mansion library after the noon meal to meet my new tutor. I am less than enthusiastic as I drop my bag of textbooks brought from home onto a glossy surfaced table in the center of the room. The library is empty when I arrive, and I slump into a nearby chair and look around. The whole place has a feeling of disuse and neglect. Faded carpets, an inch of dust on all the shelves, books that haven't been opened in years…it even smells like old age and decay.

My tutor is late. Perhaps the man is so ancient it takes him twice as long to make an arrival. Maybe he won't show at all and I'm off the hook. I don't need an instructor anyway; I can handle my studies on my own.

Walking aimlessly around the room, I pause at the row of tall windows overlooking a manicured garden two stories below. The sun is high and scorching and the leaves of the rows of fruit trees flutter listlessly in the heat. Everything has a look of weary exhaustion in the haze of an Indian summer long past its welcome.

I move on and peruse the shelves of books without really seeing what they hold. I've never been much of a reader, that's Lily's thing, not mine. All of these dusty old volumes look like they were preserved from the ancient times before the world changed. I don't recognize any of the titles or authors and don't care to get to know them. I hope my tutor doesn't have any interest in getting me acquainted either; I have enough to read within my textbooks alone.

I am about to give up on my instructor completely when my eye catches on a row of books third shelf from the bottom near the door. These leather bound volumes appear less aged and virtually untouched. Along the spines in silver lettering is the repeated title of Hunger Games History, followed by the dates held within each book in order from year one until the seventy-fifth, the last year of the games.

My heart actually skips a beat. This is the record of the last year when my parents helped bring down the games and start a rebellion against the Capitol… Did these books actually give a detailed account of what my parents had been trying to hide from me for ages? I reach for the last book in the row, eager to find out for myself.

The door suddenly opens and I retract my hand as if caught doing something I shouldn't. That is the effect my parent's disapproval of the games has had on me, creating a jumping, guilty kid out of someone who should have every right to be curious. However, there is no need to startle. It's not my tutor and it's certainly not my dad. I don't know who this kid is, or what he's doing here. Several inches taller than me, the build of an outdoorsman, possibly early twenties, he doesn't fit the persona of any of the Capitol citizens that I've seen. Maybe he belongs to one of the other council members and is here to get tutored as well.

"Hey," he nods in greeting with a grin, eyeing me as if sizing me up for a personal conclusion. Crossing the room, he takes a seat at the same table where I have left my books, kicks back a separate chair for a foot rest, and tosses his dark hair carelessly out of his eyes, staring at me with amusement.

There is something very familiar about this kid, like I've met him before but don't recall when or where. Probably at some Capitol function when we were kids, I just wish I could remember a name or place him properly. His stare is unnerving, and I can't help but feel annoyed.

"Well," he raises a lazy hand flippantly, expecting something.

_Well, what? _

"Ready to get started?" he asks.

I glance at the door in confusion. _Wait,_ is he…?

"I'm your tutor, mate," the guy smiles humorously. "Didn't your old man tell you?" He sighs and plants his feet back on the floor when I don't respond. "Alright, well, let's get on with it. Are these your books?" He reaches across the table and invades my privacy by digging through my things. "What subject do you want to start with?"

"Who are you?" I break in, still not moving from my place by the bookshelf.

My tutor glances up and, this time, he is surprised. "Clay Peaks," he responds as if I should have already known, "the president's son."

I nearly swear out loud. Of course it is. That answers where I have seen him before. His face is only on the wall of every room in the mansion in some portrait or another, not to mention hanging in every Hall of Justice from here to District 13. I have also met him in person before, but only once. I was really young and barely remember the boy a good five or six years older than me who stood beside his mother as she was sworn in as President of Panem years ago. Usually, when I visit the Capitol, Clayton Peaks has been away at a special school in District 2, and I haven't given him much thought since that first meeting.

"You know, I'm not real thrilled about this either, kid," he says sardonically, paging through my composition workbook. "I had hoped that a tutoring job for the Mellark family would have meant your sister. How is she by the way? She's not here, is she?"

"At home," I shake my head.

"That's too bad," Clay leans back in his chair, digs a finger in his ear with a lazy grimace, and waits for me to move. His eyes drop to where my hand rests on the shelf near the Hunger Games History collection. "Catching up on your history?"

I follow his gaze and remove my hand uncomfortably.

"Don't bother with those," he adds. "There's little truth to any of what's written there."

He doesn't explain and does little to quench my desire to read what the books have to say.

"Sit," he points to the chair across the table. "I can give you all the history you want, but first we get through this mess. I don't need it getting back to your dad, or my mother for that matter, that I didn't do my job. Tell me what you've been taught at that fine institution of learning back in 12. A lot of worthless facts no doubt…"

Clayton Peaks seems to think a great deal of himself, which is no surprise when it comes to the son of a national leader. However, I can't help but like him. Not like him exactly, but I'm definitely amused. While he instructs me on mathematical equations and proper grammar, Clay fills me in on how the renowned genius firstborn of the president ended up back living with his mother and giving lessons to council member's kids.

"I had a job in the intelligence department over in 2. We were designing new forms of biological and agricultural specimens that would prove more sustainable in dryer climates. They're cross-breads really, mutants of vegetation that would provide more nutrients in less volume, thus eliminating the threat of famine. We've been working on it for some time, so no the current crisis wasn't a surprise to us. The meteorologists in 2 have seen this coming and we're nowhere near seeing the last of the devastation. It's only going to get worse." He tells me this as if it is nothing, just a trivial piece of information.

Clay points out a mistake in my work and explains its correction before I can ask any questions about the famine or his intelligence work in 2. I wonder how much the council knows about the research. I know my dad never said anything about it. The representative from 2 sure didn't share that information at the meeting yesterday.

"Anyway, the work was a bore. I couldn't stand it." Clay continues his monologue after I correct my mistake and move on. "All those unintelligent morons pretending they had a clue what they were doing…it drove me crazy. If they would have just listened to me they would have known that their formulas were all wrong. Fifteen months of work and nothing to show for it; it was such a waste."

No wonder their councilman hadn't felt inclined to share.

"I'd had enough," Clay concluded, sitting back in his chair and tossing aside a textbook he had been leafing through. "I left, last month, and came home. I wanted a break to just not think for a while, but Mom insisted I do something with my time. The president always gets what she wants, so here I am…" he waved a hand with a shrug and watched me for a response. I had none. His eyes narrowed in an attempt to figure me out and I waited for the verdict, dodging a few furtive glances over my workbook uneasily.

"You're good with a bow," he spoke finally with more of a statement than a question.

"Yeah…"

"Yeah, I've heard about your skills," Clay nods.

_From who?_ Not my dad, surely.

"Good," he jumps up suddenly and pushes the lessons away. "Time for your practical lesson, let's go! Let's get out of this room before our minds go to mush."

I don't hesitate to follow, just as ready to leave the books and get out into the open air. I suspect that his reference to my ability with a bow means that he has plans to show me how to get my hands on one in the Capitol, and I am not wrong. We leave the main house on the mansion grounds and walk to a separate outbuilding on the compound. A type of armory, it is a large brick building, cool and dark on the inside with separate rooms holding every weapon of war I can imagine.

We fit ourselves with bows, gear, and plenty of arrows. Clay knows every back alley, street, and byway of the Capitol and after a good twenty minute walk, he leads me through a secluded gate and out into a wooded area on a neglected mountain trail. He has not stopped talking the entire time, and I hear several detailed stories of glorious hunts with his schoolmates in District 2. Prohibited late night excursions, daring trips down flooded whitewater streams, fierce animal encounters…he's seen and done it all. My stealthy trips into the woods outside 12 seem childish and pathetic next to Clay and when he asks me about them, I don't feel like sharing.

"You don't talk much do you?" he raises an eyebrow and slows down on the trail so I can catch up.

"I do when I'm allowed to," I can't help but reply snidely. Tutor or not, I feel like I can get away with it with this guy. His grin tells me I am right, and Clay kindly shuts up. "I haven't done much," I tell him. "I just like to hunt. I like the woods, the quiet…" I stop and look at our surroundings, taking in the stunning views. We have climbed far above the city, leaving the valley behind and, through the trees, I can see the rooftops of the Capitol glinting in the harsh glare of the sun. The president's mansion is in the distance and I think of dad stuck in his exhausting meetings thinking his son is tucked away safely in some stuffy library deep in my lessons.

I shrug, turning back to Clay and my train of thought. "I've snagged quite a few game, but I've never fought off a bear."

"No," Clay cocks his head with another knowing grin, "just a mutant."

I roll my eyes. "My mom did that, not me."

"Yeah, but not until after you allowed it to take a chunk out of your arm instead of your girl."

How is it that he knows everything? Who had he been talking too? "Right…" I respond and let it go, too unsettled by this guy to argue.

"So," Clay continues down the trail, dropping the level of his voice and checking the trees for signs of birdlife. "What did it look like? I've been trying to convince the staff down in research to let me have a look at it, but I can't seem to get clearance." The accusation in his voice suggests that he is not pleased with this.

"I dunno," I frown, stopping and fitting an arrow before releasing it into a thicket of fern where a rabbit had dashed for cover seconds before. I don't really want to talk about that unnerving vision right then. I had all but forgotten about it since arriving at the Capitol and bringing it back while in the middle of a hunt in foreign woods is less than settling. "Big, hairy…smelled like death rot."

"But it was human," Clay relished the thought.

"_Half_ human," I correct him.

"That's what I meant." He watches as I disappear in the brush a moment and return with my kill. Showing his appreciation, he takes the rabbit and turns it over to examine the arrow wound to the eye. "Perfect shot, just like your mother."

Alright, Clay is really starting to creep me out now. He knows way too much, even for a prodigy. "You know my mom?"

"Know of her," he hands back the rabbit and continues on down a different path through the trees. "Everybody does, kid. She's a legend, your dad too. But nobody needs to tell you that. It's a real treat having famous parents, right? Talk about expectations…if you hadn't hit that rabbit dead on I would have wondered what was wrong with you. And I bet Lily is some talented artist or something, right?"

"She's creative," I admit, "but more of a healer, like my grandmother."

Clay nods, "Figures." He falls silent for once and we crouch low beside a series of jutting boulders and watch for movement on the other side of a clearing. Clay takes a shot, felling a large, dark winged bird from the lower branches of a tree, and we quickly move to retrieve it. "The seventy-fifth games were my favorite, and not because it was the end and didn't go at all like the Capitol planned. The fact that they brought back all the old Victors and that your parents had to endure it twice. I mean, how intense was that?"

He caught my expression and stopped short before picking up his kill lying in a bed of pine needles. "Don't tell me you haven't seen it?"

I think it is obvious that I haven't.

Clay shakes his head in disbelief, grabs the dead bird by the neck and removes his arrow from under its wing. "Well, I guess we know what our history lesson will be tomorrow, don't we?"


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

It isn't so bad, at first. But then, with each increasing year that flashes by on the screen, the Games get worse. More morbid, deadlier…sicker, and all for the sake of entertainment. You can tell that the viewers eventually became desensitized by the gore and the game makers had to work hard to come up with new ways of shocking the masses to keep them watching. I now understand why Haymitch feels the need to drink all the time. After watching over sixty years' worth of clips, I'm feeling a little thirsty myself.

We sit in a dark room watching the flashing, projected images dance in front of us on a wall. It is more of a closet than a room, a storage space tucked away in a remote corner of the mansion. How Clay had originally found it, I don't know. The room is crowded with rickety, metal shelves loaded down with boxes and crates, many of which hold all the old reels of Hunger Game footage. Clay sits with his feet up, casually manning the projection unit and occasionally passing out unemotional commentary in addition to the moving pictures on the screen. When we reach the near end, the seventy-fourth annual Hunger Games, he keeps his comments to himself, and I just watch.

It is surreal watching my parents at such a young age, my age. Seeing Dad is like looking in a mirror, a trick mirror where some of the reflected characteristics and mannerisms are all wrong. He looks like me, but then he looks like Lily…like a melding of the two, and the same goes for Mom. It's a little unnerving.

I'm also confused. I had always been given the impression that they had begun to fall in love during the Games. Maybe Dad, but not Mom, not based off of what I am seeing now. Maybe it's because I know her so well, or that we are so much alike that I know. I can see it in her face even on the screen. I can tell by the way she kisses him in the cave…she's lying. And if Dad was lying too, he was a lot better at it.

The clips move fast and we near the end of the seventy-fourth games. I watch the whole scenario play out and, even though I know how it ends, I find myself holding my breath just before my parents drop the nightlock berries that would have been their mutual suicide. Clay hurries through the after-game footage and moves on to the next reel. I lean back in my flimsy folding chair and release all the air in my lungs slowly. I had been holding my breath and didn't even realize it. My palms are damp with sweat and the room feels close and warm, though it had been cool when we came in.

"Last one," Clay speaks, pausing with a finger on the play button. "You alright?"

I nod without speaking, and he starts the film.

This sequence has a whole new set of surprises. No one had ever told me that Dad all but died walking into the force field in the arena. How could they not tell us? How could _Haymitch_ not tell _me_? I find myself gripping the edge of the chair seat while Finnick brings my father back to life, and for the first time on screen I see a real expression of affection from Mom towards Dad. It is full of fear, but it's definitely real and recognizable from how I've always known her to react towards him. Two seconds later the expression is gone and she returns to the guarded, uncertain expression that she seems to wear like a mask throughout the entire game.

I watch a little uncomfortably as my parents share a rather intense onscreen kiss when the rest of tributes aren't watching. I also discover where the pearl that is set into Mom's wedding ring came from. Nobody told me about that either. I had always just assumed it was purchased that way or that they picked it up on one of their many trips to District 4. Not that it really matters, but it is one more thing that they haven't told me, and I can't help but feel annoyed.

Clay breaks the silence again to point out how the tributes carefully planned to electrocute the water to kill off several competing tributes as well as half their food supply living in the cove. "See, Beetee's smart, he had the plan in action all along. He needed that wire and he made sure he had it, not to execute the water, but…well, watch." He shuts up in time for me to see what the real plan had been all along. It didn't go exactly as planned, Clay explains. But, thanks to my mom, it came off anyway. The force field was broken and the rebels swooped in to try and rescue as many of the allied tributes as they could.

"And that…" he gestures at the screen after freezing it on a blurred image of electric light, smoke, and chaos before the camera cuts out and all goes blank. "That is the beginning of a war."

I don't know what to say, starring at the floor without seeing it while the images of death and violence replay rapidly through my mind. The backstabbing, the allegiances, the influence and control of the Capitol on the climate and landscape…the mutants. I had always assumed it was bad. My parents silence and uncontrolled nightmares can attest to that. But I had never imagined it like this, not this bad. "They got my mom out," I say more to myself than to Clay.

"Yes," he replies.

"But not my dad," I look up and meet his eye.

It takes Clay a moment to respond, both of us thinking the same thing. "No."

I can imagine that if the Capitol run Hunger Games were that bad, Capitol controlled torture away from the watching eye of the cameras would have been a whole lot worse. I wonder how Dad could have possibly survived that. More importantly, how did he ever come back from it?

"There is a lot of footage of the war too, from both sides," Clay tells me, moving in his chair and glancing around at all the boxes on the shelves. "They saved everything." He stops and looks steadily back at me. "Want to see it?"

I glance at the floor again and consider this, taking a while to think of a reply.

"Another time, then," Clay nods without waiting for one and begins to pack the projector unit away.

When I meet Dad for dinner it is hard not to look at him differently. If he had any idea of where I had spent my afternoon and what I had been watching he would have blown a gasket. There is no way that I am telling him, but I'm afraid that my stupid expression fails to hide that something is different. He looks at me queerly while standing back to allow me to enter the dining room ahead of him and all through dinner my awkward silence causes him more confusion. I can't help it. All I can think about is the jarring image of him colliding with that force field and the pale dead look of his body lying smoldering on the forest floor. Between that and the idea of him being tortured during the war I can barely chew my food. He was right, I decide. I was better off not knowing.

"Are you alright?" Dad was watching me closely, and I quickly pulled myself back to the present, covering my awkwardness with a shrug.

"Yeah."

Dad doesn't look convinced, but he lets it go, glancing at my uneaten dessert still left on my plate. "Well, are you going to eat that? 'Cause, I will." Without waiting for permission, he stabs the slice of cheesecake with a fork and slides the plate across the table. "What did you learn during your lessons today?"

The question hits me with a jolt and I look up, searching his face for any indication that he might have guessed what we had been doing. "Nothing," I reply a little too quickly.

"Nothing?" he asks through a bite of cake. "Well, that's money well spent."

"I mean, something," I fumble to recover. "Just…lessons, I guess. Whatever, it's school." _Who cares?_

Dad's eyebrows nit together again, and I curse inwardly, knowing I have fouled this up completely. After three bites the cheesecake is gone, and Dad pushes the plate back my direction, leans back in his chair and contemplates me curiously. I look around the room for an escape route and avoid his eye. "What's up?" he asks.

"Nothing."

"Everything's nothing," he responds curtly. "How about the truth? Did you hear something about the mutant sightings? Is it the discussions in the council room that's bothering you?"

"No," I shake my head impatiently. The council sessions are beyond dull; I'm sick of them, not bothered by them. "I'm just…bored," I lie. Bored, right. After the 'excitement' of my history lesson I am anything but bored.

Dad accepts this explanation, thankfully. He nods and looks apologetic. "This isn't exactly a Capitol vacation," he agrees. "But I never said it would be."

"I know," I grow annoyed, ready to leave the table and get away from him. "I just want to go home."

He considers this a moment, and I wonder if he is actually thinking of sending me there. "You can't go home," he says finally. "You made that choice yourself, by your actions."

"Yeah," I push away from the table stiffly, "got that." Standing, I leave the dining room and head back to our room alone.

I don't want to play Dad's lapdog during the exhausting council session the next morning. I'm sick of listening to the members argue over the same idiotic points and getting nowhere. Mostly I don't want to be around Dad. I got very little sleep last night running those film images through my mind over and over. I don't get it. In those clips my dad was brave, heroic even. He was smart and cunning, a game player with a plan to keep Mom alive. He survived death more than once and in more than one way. What happened to him?

I know, I get it. He was tortured beyond human reason; that would change anyone. But I know it hadn't changed him completely. I've seen moments of that version of my dad in the council sessions or around Mom and Haymitch. Why did they get that version of Peeta Mellark when I all get is uptight, critical Dad and his ongoing quest to stomp on my freewill? Mom had gone through nearly everything that Dad had, yet she still understands my need for something more than a proper lifestyle in a little proper house with a little proper family. I wonder if sometimes, just maybe, she wants to punch the reserve right out of Dad's proper face just as much as I do.

Caught between hating my father and being in awe of his accomplishments, I stew in my chair behind the council's row of desks. I can't even hear the conversation anymore. It is a droning insect in my ear that I would like to slap away. I haven't seen Clay since we left the storage room after my lesson yesterday. If he asks me again if I want to see the footage taken of the war I still don't know what I will say. Yes, I want to see it, but no…I actually don't. I mean, I having enough trouble sleeping as it is.

I try to come up with a good excuse not to watch it without sounding like a pansy when something the president says catches my attention. I miss about half of it, but hear my mother's name and look up as every eye in the room moves to Dad. He nods in response to what President Peaks asked him and speaks to expound.

"She checked in last night and estimates it should take her team another day's hike before she has any definite answers for us. There have been no further sightings, but the mutant left obvious tracks making their path an easy one to follow."

"Excellent," Peaks nods. "Keep us informed of their progress, will you?"

Dad nods once again and assures her that he will.

Have I missed something here? When had Mom joined the hunt for the mutant in 6? I attempt to catch Dad's eye for an explanation but he is engaged in conversation with the diplomat from 8 sitting to his left. Any awe I may have been hanging onto for him vanishes and is quickly replaced with burning anger. Did he not think I have a right to know about the safety and well-being of my own mother? Where was I last night when she had called? Why hadn't he let me talk to her?

Dad may have been simply preoccupied with the council. Very likely he can sense my furious glances are for him and he's trying to avoid me. _Fine_, I don't even care anymore.

Getting up without bringing too much attention to myself, I act as if on a mission for Dad and leave the room without looking back to see if he took any notice. Let him get his own damn coffee and pass along his own messages. I'm done being his errand boy.

"Hey, kid."

I nearly walk right past Clay in the hall without seeing him. Stopping up short I glance quickly back at the council room as if harboring a guilty conscience.

"I was just about to see if you wanted to duck out of community service with the old folks to take a little field trip."

"Yes," I jump in eagerly. We can leave that minute, right then before Dad realizes I'm gone and comes looking.

A queer smile starts at the corner of Clay's mouth, but he quickly puts it in check and maintains a straight face. "Alright then, let's go. The plane's waiting."

"Plane?"

"Yeah," he slows up after just starting off back down the hall again, "the hover plane, for the field trip."

"We're flying?"

"Well, we're sure as hell not walking to the arena."

Now it's my turn to falter in my steps. I stare at him dumbly, not sure if he is joking or not.

"It's the only remaining memorial," he allows himself a coy smile this time. "I figured you might like to see where your parents ended the Games and started a war. Are you up for it?"

I am at a loss for words. A hover plane…to the Seventy-fifth Hunger Games Arena… Something tells me this is definitely a trip my dad will not approve of. "Yeah," I nod assuredly. "Let's do it."

Even by plane it takes us a few hours to get there. Among the many talents the amazing Mr. Peaks possesses he is a well-trained pilot and there is no need to bring anyone else in on our little escapade. This intellectual phenomenon is beginning to grow on me. I'm not that into his never ending mantra of self-praise and ongoing recital of his accomplishments, but the guy had guts and knew how to enjoy life. And, as long as I am with him, I can enjoy it too.

"Flight training back in 2 was a riot," he is telling me as we fly south through a wall of dense, white clouds which leave droplets of moisture on the cockpit dash. "There were six of us in my class, a bunch of fools who should have never been given the right to fly a paper airplane, much less a hovercraft. I was top of my unit, of course, but these other dunderheads struggled to even get a plane off the ground. We used to play 'chicken' while recording flight hours. First to veer out of the other plane's flight path owed the winning pilot a box of cigars. It would land us in probation with our superiors, but what the hell, right? All in good fun; nobody got hurt. Here we are," Clay nods down below and begins to descend out of the clouds. "Hold tight, I've got to land her on the beach; she's gonna kick up a lot of sand."

The landing is smooth despite all the updraft and we are soon on the ground. I have no idea what area of Panem this is. All I know is that it is hot, humid, and I instantly feel thirsty.

"Here," Clay pokes his head out of the open aircraft door and tosses me a loaded gear pack. "Put that on and take this." After disappearing again for a second, he reemerges with a bow and complete sheaf of arrows. He really knows how to plan a field trip.

I find water in the pack and take a thrifty drink before replacing the bottle and shoulder both the pack and the weaponry. Waiting for Clay to ready himself, I squint under the bright sun and take a good look around. It looks a lot like it did in the video. Deep green and blue water laps the shore of fine white sand in a cove that extends out into an endless sea. In a half circle around the edge of the beach is a line of trees which sway in a slight breeze coming in off the water. High clouds cast ripples of shadow over the lush greenery which climbs in a sharp incline further inland.

"Are we on an island?" I ask as Clay jumps down out of the plane into the sand beside me.

"Of sorts," he tells me. "It's a large piece of land which once was part of the mainland but separated with the rising of the oceans years ago. Fishermen from District 4 often used to stop here during their runs, at least until the Capitol used it for the games and proclaimed it off limits."

"Why?" I ask, wondering why it mattered.

Clay simply shrugs like it should have been obvious. "Because of the mutants," he states and leaves me standing by the plane, moving further up the shore.

It is deathly quiet. Because of the scenery, I expect to hear the call of exotic birds or something, but even the waves on the beach seem muted and dull. It is like the volume had been turned down so as not to disturb the solemnness of the atmosphere. Clay seems to have a direct purpose in where he is walking and, after following him a few yards, I see why.

The Capitol has indeed memorialized the arena by placing a large stone plaque in the earth under the shade of some trees at the edge of the line of sand. When I reach it I can read the words inscribed on the glossy surface.

_Here marks the location of the Seventy-fifth and final Hunger Games of Panem. Under the oppressive leadership of President Snow, the citizens of Panem were forced to rebel and show their might. Because of the heroic efforts of our brave Victors, it was in the forest of this glorious shore that those who sought to oppress and abuse us were given an electrifying awaking. Though many lives were lost, both here and in the following war for freedom, good proved to prevail over evil. Our children are now free to grow old; our lives now belong to us. We owe our present and our future to those who fought so willingly._

Below, in four long columns, is a list of the dead who gave their lives during the Games, but also during the war. I search the memorial for names that I recognize. Finnick, Mags…my aunt Prim. All the people my parents have mentioned in passing but never really talk about. I look for one in particular and run my finger across the name when I find it. Rue. The _only_ one Mom ever told me about herself. I didn't need to watch the footage of that little girl's death to know of the tragedy of it. Her short-lived but weighty impression she left on my mother was retold like a nursery rhyme to us as kids. It doesn't escape me that her seemingly pointless death led to my freedom to live.

I trace the letters of her name with the tip of my finger before letting my hand drop back to my side. Sighing, I glance around the beach again and realize that Clay isn't with me. He is several yards to my right, inching his way through the thick undergrowth and about to disappear into the forest without me. Picking up my bow, I quickly follow, eager to explore this strange and haunting place.

"Wait up!" I call out and jog across the sand, crashing into the brush before slowing and silencing my steps. The noise I had created seems to echo in a disturbing rift and leaves me feeling uncomfortably aware of every footstep, every snap of a twig, even every breath from my constricted lungs. The air feels even heavier under the weight of the trees, and it takes me a while to catch sight of Clay again where he hikes about twenty feet ahead up the incline. Winding my way through a twisted path around protruding roots and shoots of large fern, I catch up feeling winded and tired even after such a short hike.

"It's like breathing through a hot sponge, isn't it?" Clay pants, wiping his damp brow with the back of his hand and leaving it smudged with dirt. "This way," he nods further inland. "I want to find the tree where they broke the force field."

I forgot about that, too interested in the landscape to even remember why we are here. This trip had gone from exciting to sad and back again in about two minutes. Despite the difficulties I find in breathing and the strain of hiking in such a climate, I feel more alive than I had even while hunting in the outskirts of the Capitol. It almost feels like being at home, out in the woods when I was supposed to be at work at the bakery. Except this time, if I get caught, the consequences will be much greater. The risk makes it all the more intriguing.

Clay is telling me all about a hunting expedition he and some friends had enjoyed in the forest outside District 7 a while ago. I have stopped listening to his dull recollections of grandeur, however, and am much more in tune with our surroundings than he is when the wood is suddenly filled with the deafening sound of a human scream. Both of our hands shoot to our bows, but I am the quickest. I swing around with arrow poised and ready, searching wildly for the source of the bone chilling sound.

"What the hell was that?" I can see nothing but the trees, undergrowth, and the dancing glare of the sun on the water through the breaks in the foliage.

"A jabberjay," Clay is the first to see it. Pointing with the tip of his own arrow, he waits until I find it before releasing it from his bow string and bringing the bird down.

"Jabberjay?" I watch it fall with a heavy thud into the ferns. "They're still here?"

"Shouldn't be," he moves to get a good look, crouching on his haunches and peering at the glassy, lifeless eye of the mutated bird. "But, obviously, they didn't catch them all, did they? I'd hate to know whose scream it was mimicking."

"It's been twenty years," I point out in disbelief.

"Hell of a long time to recall a sound like that and mimic it," Clay straightens and looks about with a frown. "Dedicated little buggers, aren't they?"

It is appalling. I have never heard anything so unnerving. Not even Glade's scream on the day of the mutant attack can compare to that. I can't pull my eyes away from the dead bird at our feet. It is bigger than the similar mockingjays we have flying around District 12. Bigger and more terrifying. "Damn mutants."

"Damn straight," Clay mirrors my sentiment.

"They said they destroyed them all," I remember my mother's words the night before Dad and I left for the Capitol. "What happened?"

"Nothing happened," Clay turns to go and eventually I get my feet to work again, following him up the hill. "They gathered up all they could find in each arena, district, and the leftovers from Snow's supply in the Capitol. Those were destroyed. The ones they missed…were not. Then the old arena tourist sites were shut down, their protective boundary force fields uplifted, and the remaining rogue mutants were free to roam. They lost themselves in the Wild, bred with similar animal species, and left everyone alone until—"

"Until their food ran out," I broke in.

"Exactly."

"How do you know all this?"

Clay gives me an impatient look like I am an idiot, and I quickly shut up. "That leads us to our current problem but with no way to fix it. No one knows how many are out there, what they look like, how much they've reproduced, or where they are."

"My dad is trying to convince the Council that they need to send out a hunting party to find them all," I tell him. It is nothing he doesn't already know. "My Mom is already out there with a team, searching for the one that attacked in 6."

"And you don't agree," Clay catches my ungracious tone and misreads it.

"No," I correct him. "I wish I was with her."

His eyebrows rise in understanding. "So go," he shrugs like it's just that easy.

"Right," I give him a sarcastic look in return.

"Councilman Mellark advises against it?"

"He advises against everything I want to do," I grumble. "Hunting, learning about the Hunger Games…he didn't even tell me Mom was trailing the mutants." I stop myself from saying more, not meaning to unload my frustrations on Clay.

He watches me shrewdly, not bothered by it, but understanding completely. "And the parent of the year award goes to…" he trails off looking around the treetops, squinting under the sun. "You know, I thought it would get easier once I got out on my own, finished school, got a top intelligence position in 2, and finished my military training. You would think, wouldn't you, that someone with my IQ wouldn't need my mommy ordering me to tutor minors for five endless hours a day…no offence."

"None taken," I assure him.

Clay stops on a piece of higher ground and glances down with a frown. "Our parents are ruining our lives."

I step up beside him and look upon the tree which, when hit by lightning, caused a spark which shook a nation. "Yeah," I agree, "but they probably have a right too."

Clay raises an incredulous eyebrow before letting out a loud laugh which is stifled in the stillness of the heavy air. "Yeah, maybe."

When we arrive back in the Capitol the hover plane descends through a dark sky. The higher elevation of the mountains makes for a crisp, cloudless night with distant pin prick stars giving off a cool glow. The moon is autumn bright and already high in the sky, and I wonder what Dad is going to say when I show up in our room several hours late for dinner. I try and come up with a plausible excuse as Clay and I step out of the port hanger where we have left the hovercraft.

"Where are you going?" he asks as I head in the direction of the mansion across the presidential compound.

Well, I had figured on going to bed, but I guess not. I stop and watch him walk in the opposite direction toward a parked official looking vehicle with a Panem seal painted on the driver's door. "Field trip's not over yet," he informs me with a grin before getting behind the wheel. I glance back at the mansion, think hard for about two seconds, and quickly jump in the other side.

I have been to the Capitol many times in my life but have never seen the streets and sights where Clay brings me. Dirty little alcoves lit up with flashing neon and high definition live advertisements on giant screens outside shady shops and late-night clubs. The sun had just gone down but the avenues are already alive and crowded with well-dressed patrons ready for a night out.

"Is it always like this?" I ask as Clay pulls up in front of a brightly lit club with a line of people snaking out the door. It is a weeknight; I'm interested to know what it is like on the weekends. I am also interested to know what exactly I'm doing here. A fifteen-year-old kid from District 12, a boy from the eastern sticks without a clue…how are they even going to let me in?

Clay doesn't seem to be bothered by this minor detail. Breaking hard in front of the establishment, he steps out with confidence and hands the keys off to a waiting valet. I quickly follow, but with far less assurance in how we were going to pull this off. But I should have remembered who I am with. This is Clayton Peaks; the president's son gets in wherever he wants, with whomever he wants.

The club is what I expect: dark, crowded, and loud. Clay summons a couple of eager females from out of nowhere and we settle in at a table in the rear. A waitress in a tight uniform arrives, and I am sure that I will be kicked out before even getting the opportunity to drink underage. Again, I am wrong as Clay takes over and orders drinks for the table, slipping an arm around the nearest girl and waving at a familiar face across the room.

"This is my student," he tells the girls who nod and smile, not able to hear what he is saying but willing to please. "I'm teaching him a lesson in modern culture. Take notes, kid, there'll be a quiz later."

The blonde beside me giggles, and I realize just how cute she is. Young too, with a head of curls and crystal blue eyes.

"Arie could teach you all about female modern culture," Clay's dark haired beauty insinuates with a coy smile from where she clings to his arm on the other side of the table. Arie just giggles more freely and snuggles closer in the oversized booth. A vague picture of what Glade would do if she ever knew I was here crosses my mind but is obliterated by the pounding beat of the music, the flashing lights, and by Arie giggling in my ear. The drinks arrive and I completely forget about Glade.

I don't know what Clay ordered us but it goes down smooth and kicks in fast. One moment I'm lounging comfortably at the back of the room with Arie watching a tight group of dancers out on the floor. The next minute I'm in the center of those dancers with my arms around a redhead I've never met before, and I don't know how I got here. Clay is around somewhere, moving in and out of the crowd with several different dolled up faces and growing increasingly jolly himself. Every time I get to the bottom of the glass in my hand he seems to appear like magic with a fresh, full drink. I should have stopped ages ago, but I have forgotten how…

"Sage!" Clay is calling and waving from across the room, moving toward me and dragging his girl with him. It's hard to make out what he is saying with the room all warped and spinning like it is.

"What's he want?" I turn back to my dancing partner and realize she has turned back into Arie again. "Oh, hey," I smile, relieved to see a familiar face. She says something but I can't hear a damn thing in that place. "What?"

"Move, kid," Clay barges into me and starts pushing us off the floor.

"Why?" I stumble and grab ahold of Arie before I fall on my face. "What time is it?"

"Closing time," he screams in my ear. "Let's go!"

_Closing time?_ But we had only been there a few minutes.

There is a bottleneck of people at the door, and I realize how hot and stifling it is in there. I find it hard to breathe and begin to sweat. Arie is clutching me around the waist and trying not to get carried off by the swell of people moving like a dense wave out into the street. A blast of cool air hits my flushed face as we emerge and I am blinded by a glare of bright lights. I can see nothing but colorful spots obstructing my vision. Putting up a hand to shade my face, I attempt to regain my senses and look for the source of the light. It is the flashing bulbs of cameras, hundreds of them, or so it seems. Clicking, popping, and glaring while they film, and I hear Clay curse out loud beside me.

"Someone let it slip that we're here." He is more amused by this than I am, and I stare stupidly at the cameras while a million voices call out a barrage of questions directed at the two of us. Had we had a good time tonight, who had designed our clothes, who were we with? They had all heard about my run-in with the mutant and demand to see the scars from my healing wound. What did it look like, had I been scared, how had my mother killed the mutant? Did my dad know I was there?

"Wait," Arie connected the dots. "Your dad is Peeta Mellark? You're _Sage_ Mellark?"

Clay slaps me on the back triumphantly. "He sure is. Wave to the cameras young man, say hi to daddy."

I have no time for greetings; I'm too busy vomiting all over Arie's shoes.

The stars look closer just before the dawn. The temperature must have dropped as well, because my breath comes out like a fog before my face where I lay on cold, hard concrete at the base of fountain in the middle of one of the Capitol squares. I really have no idea where we are or the exact time. I keep one foot planted on the cobblestones to stop the world from swaying like a ship on the sea. There is a marble statue looming like a shadow at the center of the fountain and, at first, I panic thinking it is President Peaks instead of merely her likeness chiseled in stone. Clay climbs on its base and hangs from his mother's immobile outstretched arm, out over the bubbling water which sings a merry little tune that entices urges of needing to use a restroom.

"Will they show that on the District stations?" I ask. It is quiet in the deserted square and my voice sounds alarmingly amplified.

"What?"

"The video of us at the club," I explain. "Will they show it to the Districts?"

"Oh. Yeah, most likely." Clay looks for a way to climb up and sit on his mother's stone shoulders. He begins to blabber on about an artist he knows in the city who sells marble busts out of the front of his shop and narcotics out of the back. I could care less about artists and their livelihoods. I am afraid of what Glade will think when she sees the morning entertainment news from the Capitol. If only I hadn't been holding so tightly to Arie for everyone to see, or if she hadn't been appearing so possessive in front of the camera's before I lost all those drinks all over her hot pink high heels.

I groan with both physical and mental pain, rolling over and pulling myself into a sitting position. Dropping my heavy head in my hands I try to clear my head. "Glade's gonna kill me. Dad's gonna kill me."

"Good for you, mate," Clay maintains his positive attitude and makes me feel worse.

"I should go back to that island," I consider the idea. "Take off and not come back."

"Now you're thinking. Did you know that Panem isn't the only continent left on earth?"

What is he on about now?

"Yeah," Clay continues without waiting for me to respond. "Or, at least we think so. They've been studying the possibility for years, long before I was working in Intelligence. There're these ancient mountains from the old world which are even greater in elevation than our peaks here in the Capitol. They ascend so high that before the waters rose and changed the earth people use to climb them to prove their greatness and skill. Many of them died doing so.

"Anyway, there are those who think that the tops of these mountains have become great islands still above water. The snow caps gone, vegetation grown up in the rocky crags, maybe even animals and people… Missions have been planned to try and find them. Years ago they even sent out hover planes with a team of explorers. They wanted to see if any of the islands would be good locations for the Game arenas. No one knows if they ever found them; the aircrafts never returned.

"A two years ago we commissioned a sturdy fishing vessel from District 4, supplied its crew, and sent them out to sail west in a renewed search." Clay is leaning against the side of President Peaks' statue, eyes on the stars. I am only half listening to his story, working hard to keep myself from throwing up again. "They were gone nearly a year and came back with a battered ship, half-starved men all psychologically distraught and damaged beyond repair, and no evidence of any other civilizations outside of Panem. They got lost in a storm two months into their search and sailed around in aimless waters for six months before finding their way home again."

A small, eerie smile creeps up Clay's shadowed features. "That'd be the way to do it though, wouldn't it? Sail away from here, maybe to never come back. No presidential orders, no expectations, no mutants or famine. Just the open water and the hope of a foreign dry land…and maybe some lonely natives," he grins.

"Sounds good to me," I mutter, rubbing my heavy eyes.

Clay laughs out loud and jumps down from the statue, landing on the rim of the outer fountain wall. His judge of distance isn't very good and he loses his balance with arms flailing and legs wobbling. To keep himself from falling, he grabs ahold of me by the neck and manages to knock us both backwards into the two feet of frigid water. I gasp for air and fight to extricate myself from his hold, pushing Clay roughly away and wiping water from my face. Having landed on his feet, Clay is only wet from the calves down and laughing hysterically at the look on my face.

"Crazy bastard," I spit water and shake my hair back out of my eyes, prepared to take a swing at Clay. I miss, hitting the surface of the pool with a splash of my fist instead.

"Make a wish, kid," he stoops and picks up a submerged coin someone had dropped in the fountain. Gripping it between his forefinger and thumb, he turns and chucks it at his mother's statue. The copper piece ricochets off the side of the carved face and disappears in the dark with an echoing clatter. "Wish for freedom," Clay picks up another handful of worthless coins and flings it at the sculpture. "Wish for sanity…wish for any goddamn life outside of this one." This time he forgets the measly spare change and decides to kick the statue instead. The base it stands on isn't exactly sturdy, and with a terrific yell and furious curse, the president's son knocks the distinguished model of our nation's leader off her pedestal and flat on her head. The stone cracks against the pavement like a gunshot and shatters into several pieces, some of which hit the water with a great splash.

I am not bothered by it, still sitting waist deep in water with the desire to pass out right where I am. Somewhere at the back of my brain Clay is whooping and hollering, stomping on the busted statue's face. Then I hear the sirens. At first I'm not sure if they are real or a hallucination, but when the lights arrive, twirling and dancing off the walls of neighboring buildings, I know I'm not just seeing things. Someone is shouting through an air horn and their noxious voice beats against my skull like a reverberating gong. I wish they would shut up and let me sleep. I really just want to sleep.

"Sage," another voice works its way through the din, and I open my eyes. A shadow looms over me, dark against the glare of the lights from the surrounding Capitol law enforcement vehicles. "Get up," my father commands. He doesn't sound angry, at least not yet. Just stern. Stern and disappointed.

I stumble to my feet and he helps me over the side of the fountain, dragging my by the arm towards an awaiting vehicle. Clay is already there under the custody of two Peace Officers who are placing him in handcuffs. He catches my eye and grins his careless smile. "Hey-ya, kid. I guess we know who wins the parent of the year award now." Nodding briefly towards my father, Clay's expression hardens and becomes serious. "At least your warden bothered to make an appearance to your arrest." They drag him away and shove him into a separate vehicle. Dad opens the passenger door of ours and waits for me to climb in. I begin to wish for that ship to the fabled mountains on the other side of the sea along with a one way ticket to board.

He keeps his composure until we are safely without witnesses inside our room at the mansion. I am instructed very curtly to sit and not move before Dad thrusts me into a chair. He maintains his feet, pacing the room a few times in furious agitation before stopping and leaning against a side table with his arms crossed. It feels like we're back home in our kitchen and I just got caught taking the bow out again. I am not looking forward to this. More than anything I just want it to be over so I can go to bed.

"Start with where you were all day," Dad gets things going. This is not going to simply be a yelling match, I am expected to respond.

My hesitation isn't intended to infuriate him further; I actually have trouble remembering where I had been throughout the day. "On a field trip," I say assuredly.

"Where?" Dad doesn't have patience for games.

"Down south somewhere, I dunno," I never paid attention to the exact location of the arena. I notice Dad's jaw twitch, and I lose some of my confidence, sinking lower in my seat.

"How drunk are you?"

Not drunk enough to answer that question.

"Alright," Dad tries a different tactic. "Then tell me this, are you trying to get me fired? This is beyond unacceptable, Sage. This is deliberate rebellion that I don't understand."

I almost laugh at that. Of course he doesn't understand. He _never_ understands.

"What?" he demands. "What about this do you find so amusing?"

"Nothing," I shake my head in disgust. Maybe it's the lingering effects of the alcohol, but for some reason I really don't care that I've made him so angry.

"No, please," he insists, "tell me what's so funny about you disappearing for half a day, all night, into the morning just to be found sitting drunk in a fountain in the middle of the Capitol. Is it the president's broken statue that's so funny? Or footage of you vomiting outside a nightclub you're too young to even be in? Or maybe it's the record log of the hovercraft you were unauthorized to fly out of the Capitol? Clayton took you to the memorial didn't he?" Dad's eyes were like ice, boring into mine, looking for the truth. He already knows the truth, why is he even asking? "Didn't he?" he bellows, and I can't help but blanch a little at the volume of his fury.

"Yes," I reply, feeling my own anger bubble up like a growing pain in my chest. Why is he so surprise? He was the one who hired Clay as my tutor in the first place.

"You know damn well your mother and I don't want you and Lily involved in anything related to the Hunger Games."

"Yeah, I know," I snap back.

"We've repeatedly told you—"

"I know!" _God, can we just end this?_ Standing abruptly from my chair, I moved toward the bathroom, trying to escape. The sun is starting to come up, shining brightly through the open windows like a piercing knife in my skull. I need to get out of here.

"We're not finished," Dad stops me.

"I am." I don't want to hear him anymore.

"Sit down!"

"I went to the memorial, Dad!" I yell back in frustration. "So what? I saw where you nearly died running into that force field, why is that such a problem?" My announcement has him floored, but I don't care. Let him hear me speak for once. "Why is it so important that we not know anything of what happened to you? 'Cause you can't handle talking about it? You never tell me _anything_; even Mom has told me more than you have. I had to watch you die and come back to life on a goddamn movie screen!"

"You weren't supposed to have seen that," he forces his voice keep its control, muscles tense and face reddening under the effort.

"Right," I scoff, "like I wasn't supposed to know that Mom is tracking mutants in 6? Whoops," I shrug sarcastically. "Guess you should have tried a little harder to keep that a secret."

"Sage—"

"I'm not five," I cut in. "I may not be all brave like Mom or honorable like the great _Peeta_ _Mellark_, but I'm not a kid. I have a right to know where my mom is!"

"I'm right here."

Dad and I both startle, turning around to see Mom standing in the open door off the hall. She is dressed in full tracking gear and looks a little worse for wear. Her eyebrows rise at the sight of our guilty faces and she catches Dad's eye, reading more there than is said out loud. "Good to see you too," she drops a heavy pack on the floor in exhaustion, stepping further into the room and clearing the way to the door. "Peeta, Peaks is looking for you. She wants a word."

"I'm sure she does," Dad mutters. His glance my direction tells me that this isn't over, and he leaves just as upset as he was before. His hand reaches for Mom's for a passing second on his way out and Mom gives him a wan smile in return. She looks tired, even more tired than I feel.

Sighing heavily, she turns back to the room and looks for a place to sit down. "It seems as if life in the Capitol hasn't done you any good," she says.

"I'm sorry."

"I should think so." Sinking into the chair I recently vacated, she looks up at me with a not altogether unpleasant face. "I'm taking you home."

"You are?" I'm not quite sure how to feel about this.

Mom nods. "Tonight, on the last train out of the Capitol. It's obvious that this isn't what's best for you."

"What about Mayor Orwell?"

"He'll get over it," she shrugs. "I want my son home. We could use another good bow on hand now that it's nearly winter."

"Hunting?" The thought excites me and even the discomfort of seeing the Orwells again isn't enough to douse that feeling.

"That…" Mom nods, "and protection."

It takes me a second to get what she is referring to but, when I do, my eyes widen in disbelief.

"There's more, Sage," she affirms what I am thinking. "At least two different mutants have been sighted, both in District 12. I think they're migrating."

"Where?"

Mom meets my eye and I see not only exhaustion there, but worry also. "To 13. Where the food and water are."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Katniss Everdeen Mellark is called before the council to give her report on the hunt for the mutants. I am there in my usual seat behind Dad, nursing a mammoth headache and wishing I was in bed, or dead, or anyplace other than here. I had hoped that Mom would intercede on my behalf and convince Dad that I'm not needed at the meetings that morning but, to my disappointment, she did not. I am not given the chance to sleep off this terrible hangover. Instead I am ordered to hit the shower, force down some food and scalding coffee, and marched off to the council room to fulfill my duties as message boy. I am scheduled to go home that night; as far as I'm concerned I no longer work here. I just wish Dad saw it the same way.

"You look like you could use a pick-me-up."

I look up in surprise as Haymitch sinks into the chair beside me holding an open flask. The thought of taking another drink makes my stomach clench and I politely decline.

"Not this," he snorts. "This is mine. Here, take this." Dropping a pair of white pills in my hand, Haymitch nods with a smile like he has just given me a Christmas gift. "That'll cure what ails ya, trust me."

I don't, but am willing to try anything at that point. Knocking back both pills dry, I close my eyes and swallow, hoping they kick in fast, whatever they are. "I didn't know you were here," I tell him.

"Came in on the train with your mom," Haymitch informs me. "I have to report to the President, same as her. Then I'm hitchin' the first ride outta here and getting' myself home before the next mutant comes sniffing around." Taking a long pull from his flask, he gives a satisfied sigh, wipes the wet from his lips, and slaps me roughly on the shoulder. "Feel better, kid. You know who to thank when you do."

"You're leaving?" I ask when he stands and moves toward the door.

"You bet I am. I'm not due to get up in front of her Royal Highness 'til after lunch. Until then, you can find me in the garden. I'll be the guy passed out in a flower bed."

He leaves just as Mom gets up and stands before the council to share with its members what her and her team knows thus far. There are at least three mutants loose in Panem, she begins by stating. All have left tracks headed northeast toward District 13. Some of those tracks are rather bloody, Mom admits. She relates how they had come across the decomposing carcasses of deer, bear, and beaver. All had been mangled almost beyond recognition, meat ripped away by jagged fangs, innards ripped out and left to rot. It was gruesome to listen to even though I have been skinning my own kill since toddlerhood. Maybe my weak stomach from the alcohol had something to do with my queasiness. Listening to Mom's descriptions with my throbbing head in my hands, I try very hard not to picture the graphic scenes for fear of losing my breakfast.

"From what we can tell there is only one beast who is out for human consumption," Mom tells the president. "The mutant who attacked in 6 has also been spotted in 12. Whereas the other two have kept primarily to the protection of the woods, this one in particular is daring enough to come within the District boundaries itself. It very nearly attacked an older member of our society and if it hadn't been for his companion's quick thinking with a rifle, he would have been."

"He shot the mutant?" Peaks asks.

"Tried to," Mom shrugs. "He missed, but managed to scare it off for a time. We have upped our security around the fence boarders, set watches and implemented a mandatory District curfew until the mutant is killed or captured. It has not been seen since that incident two days ago. We believe it has moved on and followed the others north."

"By why are they coming so far south just to turn north again?" Cremini asks. "Why not just pass through the Wild and enter through the northern boarders of 13?"

Mom answers, but keeps her attention on President Peaks. "We can't be entirely sure without an investigative trip north, but I don't believe they can."

Peaks' eyebrows nit upon hearing this, and several murmurs of confusion fill the room before Mom explains further.

"Based off of changing water levels around the shores of Panem, I believe the northern ice continents are beginning to melt. With the steady, high temperatures we've had this summer, it only makes sense. The nation is shrinking…again."

This news is not taken very well, and even I am pulled out of my stupor with some alarm. Mom and Dad are the only ones in the room not speaking rapidly to their neighbors about this distressing possibility.

"I still don't understand," Cremini speaks over the rest and shushes the uneasy banter. "Are you suggesting that the water levels have risen so far that they have created new shoreline along 13's boarder? Wouldn't the citizens have alerted us to such a change?"

"Not exactly," Mom corrects him. "But I believe that the melting icebergs have spilled their runoff into some the waterways and tributaries throughout the Wild. The mutants would have several rivers and streams to cross before reaching the eastern portions of their territory. If they are overflowing, the rivers would be too difficult to cross, even for a mutant. Both animals and half-species alike would have to travel far south before finding an easier passage that would also supply them with food. What we haven't figured out is what is drawing them to 13. They have survived the famine better than most Districts, but no better than the Wild where the mutants migrated from in the first place."

"Perhaps they're being called." A newcomer speaks from just to the right of the door. Everyone looks up in surprise and all eyes fall on Clay where he stands leaning nonchalantly against the wall. His sudden presence sparks irritation in both the president and my Dad who tenses in his seat and eyes Clay with restrained contempt.

"This is a private meeting, Clayton," Peaks informs him coldly, narrowing her own gaze at her son fiercely. He has embarrassed her enough that morning, she isn't going to put up with much more. "Leave. You and I will speak—"

"Did any of you ever consider the actual biological makeup of these creatures?" Clay cuts her off, ignoring her pointed demand with his gaze settled on Mom as if she were the only one in the room.

"They're anomalies," she engages him, putting off any attempt from Peaks to force him out.

"Patchwork, inbred organisms created in labs," Clay agrees with a cocky half smile. "A piece of mammal here, a bit of reptile DNA there…meshed together and supplied with a brain in order to function. A—"

"Human brain," Mom hits on the point he is trying to make, and Clay's grin expands. He is delighted by her quick conclusion, leaving the rest of the room in the dark.

"What are you suggesting?" Peaks grows impatient.

"He's suggesting," Dad jumps in incredulously, "that the mutants are organizing."

The sound of his voice seems to bring Mom out of some deep reverie, and she blinks, returning to the present.

"That's impossible," Representative Shoal shakes her head.

"Is it?" Clay challenges humorously without ever taking his eyes off Mom.

"That's enough," Peaks snaps. "We're getting off topic—"

"It is well known that ex-President Snow's team of Creationists had developed such advances in science that the mutants created during his reign of terror were thought at times to show signs of independent thought," Clay continues as if Peaks hadn't spoken.

"_Signs_," Dad stresses, "not evidence. The intelligence abilities you allude to would suggest evolutionary advancement of the kind that has never been scientifically proven."

"Not yet, no," Clay maintains his cocky reserve but finally pulls his gaze away from my mom and drops it to the floor under the heat of Dad's glare. "But it is interesting, isn't it? A sudden influx of mutant sightings, all in the same area, seemingly unrelated, and yet they all seem to be traveling the same direction. A mutant family reunion perhaps?"

"I think we've heard enough," Peaks is growing more and more furious at her son's snide comments, but it is obvious that she has very little control over him.

Unbothered by her increasing anger, Clay continues to press his ideas on the council with apparent satisfaction over their discomfort. "Maybe General Yates could enlighten us on why the mutants are so interested in his District." His attention moves to the hardnosed Representative from 13 and, once again, all eyes follow his leading. "General? Please, tell us about your most recent houseguest."

"Clayton!" Peaks yells from her elevated desk, banging a fist on the paper strewn surface. "No more of this! I insist you leave this room immediately!"

"What houseguest?" Cremini would like to know. Everyone wants to know, and Yates grows uncomfortable in his seat, looking to President Peaks for help.

"You have a mutant," Mom answers the question for him, looking as dumbfounded as everyone else. "When? Where did you capture it?"

Yates swallows tightly, fiddling with the cuffs of his uniform and looking as if he will refuse to answer.

"That is classified information and I forbid you to divulge it," Peaks looks a little unstrung herself. Clay laughs sharply while the rest of the room appears shocked by her ferocity.

"_What_ mutant?" Dad demands, and I get a glimpse of the other Peeta Mellark, the Hunger Games Peeta I'm rather partial to.

Peaks seems to deflate a little under his gaze, and she looks around the room, realizing she is outnumbered on this one. Piercing her lips like a stubborn child, she shoots daggers at her son and Yates takes this as the go-ahead to fill everyone in.

"Three months ago we captured a mutant just outside the border between 13 and the northern Wild," he explains. "Our surveillance team had noticed its presence and, after some careful monitoring, determined that it had created a sophisticated habitat in a cave not far from our fence line. Not an animal den, a dwelling. This…creature was building a house, and using stolen items from our compound to do it. It," Yates fumbles, correcting himself, "he had been slipping through our security strongholds undetected."

"How?" Dad wants to know.

Yates shrugs, "Know idea. But we do know that this isn't just any mutant. He can think intelligently, act intelligently, and even create intelligently."

"He?" Mom asks. "It's a male?"

"Mutants aren't supposed to have genders," Cremini argues.

"And yet they've been reproducing for years," Clay points out impatiently. "How about that…The evolutionary process at its best," he passes Dad a haughty sneer.

"A scientific design flaw, more like," Dad responds curtly. "What have you done with the mutant?" he turns back on Yates. "Where is it now?"

The General appears uncomfortable again, glancing warily at President Peaks who can't even meet his eye. Mom looks alarmed, an expression that Dad doesn't seem to miss and it doesn't take me long to understand what both of them realize at the same time.

"He escaped," Mom can barely believe it even as she utters the words, her jaw clenching in anger at the incompetence of the military citizens of 13.

"Yes," Yates doesn't deny it. "Seventeen days go. My men have been tracking him, but have been unsuccessful in recapture."

"Perhaps you should have called Katniss," Dad mutters snidely, slumping back in his chair in frustration. "I guess we know what needs to be done. Katniss, assemble a team and head to District 13."

"Now wait!" Peaks comes to life again, turning red in the face, her eyes widening at his presumption. "I believe I am President of this nation, Mellark! Not to mention the official leader of this council. I will make the final decisions for this country and only after we come to a vote as a group!"

Dad assents with a dismissive wave of his hand, catching Mom's eye as she holds her amusement back with a repressed smile. President Peaks regains control of her committee and calls for a vote on sending Katniss Mellark to District 13 in charge of a team of skilled trackers to hunt down the escaped mutant and put a stop to the evidential gathering of displaced beasts attempting to join him. The vote is unanimous, and the session called to a close for the morning. When I stand to leave I glance at the door and notice that Clay is already gone.

Skipping out on the noon meal in the dining room, I head back to our room to gather my things for the trip home. I have left a few of my books in the mansion library and, when I go to retrieve them, I find Clay slumped deep in a leather reading chair shoved in front of a window.

"Hey-ya, kid."

"Hey."

He looks tired; all the cocky assuredness he carried in the council room is extinguished. "Looking for a history lesson? 'Cause I believe I've been banned from even so much as giving you directions to the nearest mansion washroom."

"Nah," I attempt a smile. "I'm just grabbing my books. Mom's taking me home tonight."

I think he's surprised by this news, but it's hard to tell. Clay's expression remains stoic but he seems to be contemplating the idea. "So it's off to the hills to hunt for monsters."

"Not likely," I pick up my books and stack them on the table. "Mom will, I guess." I'll be lucky if I'm allowed to even hold a bow in my own backyard.

"Alright, well that's fantastic," Clay responds sounding like it's anything but. I'm pretty certain that he wasn't even listening to what I said. "When does your plane leave?"

"Train," I correct him. "We're leaving on the last train out, at nine-thirty."

Clay's eyes drift back out the window where it has started to rain. Drops of moisture run down the glass and pool on the sill. "Well, you take care, kid."

"Yeah," I grab all my things and back towards the door, "you too." I don't know what President Peaks might have said to her son to knock him down a few pegs, but it seems to have worked.

Dad sees us off at the train. I think if he had the option he would have jumped aboard and gone home with us. "How much longer?" Mom asks, leaning out the open car door for one last goodbye.

"Another week maybe," he shrugs, not really sure. "I hope to be in 13 when you bring that mutant in on a spike."

"A spike?" Mom considers this with amusement. "Well, I guess I better go buy a spike then."

"Or full of arrows, whatever takes it down."

"I'm not so sure Peaks wants it brought in on a stretcher."

"The president may not have a choice," Dad returns shortly.

"Try to behave," Mom warns him. "We need her support."

Dad doesn't seem to agree but doesn't say anything more. Turning to me, he places a hand on my shoulder and squeezes it briefly in goodbye. "Take care of your mother," as if Mom needs to be taken care of. "I'll see you when I get home."

I nod and follow Mom onto the train. Haymitch is already there, settled in a chair in the dining car with a freshly opened bottle of liquor.

"The train's still in the station, Haymitch," Mom points out cynically.

"Then I better get cracking," he pours himself a full glass and raises it with a sloppy salute. "Join me, won't you? I would think a drink would be welcome after the miserable scrutiny of the pea-brained councilmembers."

"My husband is one of those councilmembers, if you recall."

"Indeed I do, Mrs. Mellark," Haymitch enjoys a long pull from his glass with a grimace. "Indeed I do."

I sleep through the majority of our ride home. I've never been so exhausted, and it makes the trip seem like it is over in no time. It is early evening the day our train pulls into District 12. The sun is beginning to set, and I have never realized just how much I love my mountain home. The Capitol has its pluses, but there is nothing like the crisp autumn air of our hills or the glow of the sun setting fire to the tops of the color changing trees. Just stepping off the train and inhaling the familiar sights and smells rejuvenates the senses and makes my fingers itch for the string of a strong bow.

"Tell Lily to keep up the bookkeeping at the bakery," Mom steps out of the train a moment for some air and to say goodbye. She isn't stopping but moving on to 13 tonight to report for duty in the morning. "Help Kit at the Gallery when the new shipment of bows arrive on Monday, and make sure the garden gets watered. If I'm not home in time for the canning, offer time and a half at the bakery and—"

"Got it, Mom," I assure her. "We can handle it."

She still looks worried, but I don't think it has much to do with the wellbeing of her house and family while she's away. "I'm going to assume that you have the sense not to go wandering outside the boundaries without caution?"

"Not without caution no," I smile, "and maybe a bow."

"Be careful," she shares my humor but is serious about her warning. "Watch over your sister."

"I will," I nod, catching sight of something over her shoulder down the line of train cars. Someone has just run across the platform and ducked behind the shed where I had made my goodbyes with Glade…

"The train's leaving," Mom regains my attention with a quick hug. "Haymitch went to get a car, he'll bring you home. I'll call in the morning before my team begins our mission. Sage?"

"Yeah," I nod again with a distracted smile as she releases me and climbs back on the train. Squinting under the glare of the dying sun, I try to get a better look at the shadow lurking about the corner of the shed, waiting. "Bye, Mom."

She waves as the train begins to move and disappears behind the sliding car door. I step back as the engine gains speed and pulls out of the station. I'm not watching it leave, heading curiously across the empty platform. I'm quite certain I know who it is that jumped so quickly from the end of the train to hide behind the depot outbuildings. "Nice to see you again," I say snidely, stopping at the corner and leaning casually against the shed's corrugated wall. "How was the trip?"

"Not as good as yours," Clay rises stiffly from a squatting position, looking sore and less than rested.

"I'm guessing the president doesn't know you're here?"

"If she does she deserves more credit than I've ever given her."

I consider the situation thoughtfully, glancing back down the length of the platform toward a car just pulling up beside Haymitch's and my stack of luggage. "Remember District 12's Victor's Village from the Hunger Games footage?"

Clay shrugs, thinking he does.

"It's on the other side of town from here, near the Meadow. Go there. Look for the third house on the right. Hang out under the space beneath the front porch for a bit. I'll come find you."

"Bring food," he calls out in a muffled voice as I walk away before Haymitch comes snooping.

I can't say that I'm surprised to see Clay. I knew he would never be able to stay around the Capitol after the other night. No doubt his mother would have demoted him to teaching pre-school toddlers how to color or something similarly demeaning. And with all the action with the mutants, it only made sense that he should turn his flight east. I just wonder why he didn't keep going. He seems to know a lot about 13's secret mutant experiments; why not head north and offer some of his intellectual assistance? And with his abilities and flare for the dramatic, it seems a little beneath him to have traveled as a stowaway on the back of train. But who was I to question the royal genius, Clayton Peaks?

Lily is home when Haymitch and I arrive. I'm glad to see that she has dinner waiting, a simmering lamb stew with fresh garden vegetables and a fresh loaf of bread. But, much to my annoyance, Lily invites Haymitch to sit down and eat with us, and he accepts. All throughout dinner, I glance warily at the window in the front sitting room, expecting to get a glance of Clay walking by on his way to our impromptu hideout. For someone who usually drinks more than he eats, Haymitch can sure take a long time cleaning his plate. When Lily offers him seconds on stew and a thick slice of chocolate cake, I nearly snap.

"What's up with you?" Haymitch notices my agitation. "Expecting company?"

His question carries just enough weight that I wonder if I wasn't the only one who saw Clay on the platform at the depot.

I ignore him and focus on my food, telling Lily about Mom's request that she take care of the bookkeeping for the bakery while she's gone.

"Kit already did," Lily informs me while refilling coffee cups. "She was going over invoices for the gallery and decided to do a complete structural overhaul of both shops. She's in this intense organizational mode lately, I don't know. But I don't mind, I'd rather she do all that work than me." She begins cleaning up the remains of the meal, and I watch a bit anxiously, hoping she's not planning on throwing all those leftovers out.

"What?" I insist, annoyed by Haymitch's scrutinizing glance of amusement. I wish he would just go home.

"Alright," he pushes back in his seat as if reading my mind. "You kids have yourself a great night. Thanks for the good eats, Lil. I could use some more chopped wood if you have time tomorrow, Sage."

"Yeah I'll get right on that," I reply tightly.

"See that you do." Haymitch slips on his jacket and reaches for the door. "Should I lock this after I leave, or are you planning on going out again tonight?" He looks at me when he asks this, and I am certain now that he knows.

"Whatever," I shrug, keeping a straight face. So what if he does? It's not like there's anything he can do about it. Clay isn't some dumb runaway kid. He had every right to be in District 12 as anyone else. _Then why the hell am I hiding him under my porch?_ I ask myself, watching Haymitch shut the door behind him.

I wait two seconds before jumping up from the table and grabbing the handles on the pot of stew before Lily can dump it in the scraps pail.

"What…?" she looks confused. "What are you doing? I can clean up myself."

"I know," I tell her shortly, dumping the stew in a bowl instead and grabbing the last of the bread. "Pour a cup of coffee and bring it out to the porch would you?"

"Why?"

"Just do it, Lil!" I command on my way out of the kitchen.

Leaving the food on a table beside the sitting room sofa, I reach for the front door and poke my head outside. A light is on at Haymitch's; good, he's inside and hopefully not watching.

"Sage," Lily begins to get demanding.

"Shut up," I cut her off, taking the steaming cup of coffee she holds and setting it down before easing out onto the porch. The sun is gone, leaving a blue, hazy twilight that covers well. I cross to the end of the porch and drop down to the dry grass, squatting along the side of the house. "Clay?"

"I'm here, mate," his voice drifts out of the dark gap between the ground and the floorboards.

"Clay?" Lily looks alarmed, standing above me near the rail. "Clay _Peaks_?" Her eyes grow wide at the sight of him dragging himself out from under our house and dusting himself off. At a loss for words, she looks from him to me and back again as if not sure if we are for real.

Clay stretches his sore muscles with a sheepish grin. "Hi, honey…I'm home."

Unlike my blunder in the Capitol, Lily has no trouble remembering the president's son. She also understands what his sudden presence in 12 means. No doubt she has also heard all about my little misadventures while under his tutelage. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to see you, of course."

"Can we finish the reunion inside," I butt in before Lily can say anything more, and I shove them both toward the door, checking the neighborhood one last time for any nosey neighbors. "There's dinner," I point to the food on the table once inside and take a seat in an armchair near the window.

Clay grabs for the food and digs in, not even caring that it's starting to get cold. Lily just stands there waiting impatiently for an explanation while moving restlessly from one foot to the other.

"Sit down!" I roll my eyes and exchange a look with Clay who looks amused through a mouthful of stew. "He's the president's son, not a convict. So what if he's here?"

She ignores my request to sit, crossing her arms like the obnoxious intruder that she is. "Does Dad know?" she asks shortly then immediately shakes her head and answers her own question with another that I had already asked myself. "Of course not or why would he be hiding under the porch?"

"I happen to like porches," Clay continues to try and rather unsuccessfully win her over with his humor. She shoots that down with a glare full of daggers.

"Nobody knows he's here," I tell her. "And we want to keep it that way." I look at Clay for confirmation on this. He nods and we both wait for Lily's response. She seems not to have one at first, thinking this through with a look of disgust.

"Are we going to have the presidential army breaking down our door in the middle of the night?"

"I hope not," Clay snorts into his coffee cup.

"Sage, seriously!" she begins to get impatient with us. "What is Mom gonna say?"

"Nothing, she's not here."

"But why is _he_?"

"Look, I'm just here for a visit, sweetheart," Clay explains. "Relax; I just needed to get away from the city for a bit. Sage told me all about the organic healing powers of your mountain air, and I wanted to see it for myself. My mom is…_psycho_ controlling, so I have to keep it quiet, alright? Sage had nothing to do with it; he didn't even know I was on the train."

She isn't happy about it, but at least now Lily has finally shut up.

"We can't keep you here," I state the obvious, watching Clay wolf down the last of his bread. "The neighbors will notice and alert the Capitol."

"Haymitch already knows," Lily realizes, looking alarmed. "Doesn't he?"

"Yeah," I grumbled ungraciously, "I think so."

"Haymitch Abernathy?" Clay looks up.

"He might have called the president already," Lily points out.

"Is he ever sober enough to use a phone?"

"He doesn't need to be," I respond derisively. "But I don't think he will."

"Oh, you don't?" Lily returns with the attitude again.

"What would he stand to gain from that?" I argue. "He probably finds it amusing."

"No doubt," Clay agrees, scrapping the bottom of his bowl with his spoon and setting it aside with a content stretch.

"Well, I don't," Lily snaps, scowling at him with more hatred than I thought she could physically possess.

"What's you're issue?"

"Nothing."

"She just hates me," Clay grins, matching Lily's glare with a twinkle of enjoyment in his eye. "Never forgave me that time at the Presidential Ball—"

"Shut up," she cuts him off abruptly.

"What happened?" I asked.

"I said I was sorry," Clay tells her, not sounding sorry in the least. "It was an accident; I just—"

"No!" Lily puts up a warning finger, putting an end to it. "You…you're…" she fumbles for words, getting up roughly from her seat and stomping off to the kitchen. "You're just vile."

_Okay… _I raise my eyebrows at Clay in confusion, and he just continues to grin, thrilled by his effect on her.

"Don't worry," he shakes his head. "It was nothing. So, do you know of a place I can hide out for a few days?"

_A few days?_ "You're not staying?"

"Not long," Clay informs me. "I want to head north."

"To find the mutants…" I had figured as much.

"Yeah, if I can."

"You should have stayed on the train," I tell him. "Mom's going up there now; it would have saved you a hike."

"I know," he agrees. "But I didn't want stay on the train. The last thing I want is to enter 13's ultra-confining military compound and get sent right back to the Capitol, or even arrested. Which is the more likely scenario once Mom found out where I was," Clay shakes his head in disgust. "Anyway, I'd rather walk. I want to pick up the scent of some of these other mutants, see what their trails can tell me. This head mutant, or whatever it is…this free-thinking freak of nature is calling the others up there somehow. I want to know how, and why."

"Could be a coincidence," I suggest.

"Maybe," Clay doesn't deny it, "maybe not. That's what I want to find out."

"I'm going with you," I announce. No way am I staying behind from something this good.

Clay opens his mouth to shut me down but is cut off by Lily who does it for him. "No you're not."

"Lil—"

"No, Sage. Mom and Dad would flip if I let you go. They would _literally_ kill you."

"I doubt that—"

"Shut up, you're not going! You do and I'll send Haymitch after you."

Clay and I both laugh at this ludicrous threat.

Lily's jaw stiffens defiantly, prepared with another. "I'll call the Capitol. I'll tell Dad _and_ President Peaks."

We're not laughing now, and I wouldn't mind hurting her just a little.

"Alright, so we've decided who's _not_ going," Clay turns back to the problem at hand. "But I need to decide when I am, and which way to go. Can you show me where you were attacked?" he asks me. "I want to start there, see what I can see and maybe find out where the others have been sighted. If I can borrow some gear, I can camp out—"

"In Mom's cabin," I interrupt. "You can stay in Mom's lake cabin."

Lily looks appalled at the thought, but I continue before she can argue again.

"It's not far from where I was attacked. I can take you there in the morning."

"Perfect," Clay agrees. "That is, if the doctor doesn't have any more objections." He looks at Lily who scowls darkly before pushing away from the kitchen doorway in a huff.

Heading for the stairs she mutters darkly, "Not as long as you're gone."

"Nice to see you again, sweetheart!" Clay calls after her with sadistic pleasure, knocking back the last of his cold coffee with a grin. "Always a treat."

I leave early in the morning and head to the Gallery. Half of what I need to supply Clay for his trip into the woods is among Mom's inventory. I just hope she doesn't miss it anytime soon. Kit will, especially if she's keeping as careful track as Lily says, but I'm just going to assume that she'll have my back in this as in everything else.

I can't help thinking all the way down through the early morning light to the square that I should be going too. I made sure that Lily knew this morning that I am not happy with her blackmail efforts to keep me from going. If I could think of a way to get around it, I would. If Clay was on my side it might be different; he might be able to help me convince her or at least come up with a plan to get by Lily's obnoxious mothering. But even if he did want me along, Lily appears to despise him. There's no way she'd give him anything that he seems to want. I still don't get why, but, at the moment, really don't care.

At the back door of the Gallery I unlock it and slip inside, flipping on a light and going in search of what I need. A bow, a good supply of arrows, a short blade machete and belt, and a bottle of Mom's patented all-natural spray to put game off of human scent. Digging in a drawer for a compass, I glance up at the shadow spilling in from the open door.

"Glade!" I straighten in surprise. I thought I had been so careful in not being spotted walking into town. "What…how did you—"

"Know you were home?" she asks with a heavy dose of ice in her question. Those stunning green eyes shine like sharp emeralds under the sun now climbing high over the eastern hilltops. There is no expression of pleasure evident in seeing me. "I'm the mayor's daughter, Sage," she points out unnecessarily. "I know everything."

_Apparently_. "Been watching the news reels from the Capitol?" I ask sardonically, returning to my search for the compass, pulling one out and adding it to my growing stack of supplies.

"Who was she?"

"Who was who?" I make a lame attempt to stall the inevitable tongue lashing. I had really hoped to have done this somewhere else…some_time_ else.

"She looked like a bimbo," Glade continues harshly, crossing her arms with a scowl. I know I should be at least a little contrite, but really I'm just enjoying watching her get all jealous and worked up. It is kind of cute. "Did you kiss her?"

"Not that I remember," I shove all my things into an open satchel and sling it over my shoulder before glancing up and catching the fury on her face. "No," I try again, moving forward and attempting to console her with a hand on her shoulder. Glade wiggles away from my gesture, impatient, but not entirely opposed to my touch. "I didn't, Glade, I promise. She was just some girl in a club. I puked on her shoes for God's sake. I would never do that to you."

She considers this a lot more seriously than I intended. "Good," she nods and seems to forgive me. "What are you doing?"

"Ah…" I look down at my satchel. What am I doing? "Getting some things…for my Mom," I lie. "She wants them sent to District 13."

This is good enough for Glade and, since we're all made up, she moves in and touches my arm in return, caressing it gently and locking her eyes on mine. "You're not leaving again, are you?"

"No," I shake my head and shorten the distance between us, drawn in like a magnet under her gaze, "definitely not." Our lips meet and I completely forget that Clay is waiting back at the house in the company of a hostile Lily for me to return to show him the way to Mom's cabin. Haymitch could show up at the door any moment. Shoot, anybody could show up and here I am locked up with Glade at the Gallery thinking of nothing but her.

I don't want to release her when she moves away with a tempting little lick of her lips with a coy smile. "What are you doing this afternoon?" she asks.

"Spending time with you," I am serious, but Glade giggles.

"Yes, you are. You can pick me up at my house at—"

"Sage!" Lily's shrill call breaks through our conversation, and we look out the door in alarm as she runs down the alley toward the Gallery. Panting and out of breath, Lily collides with the back steps leading up to the door looking panicked. "Mutant," she bursts out when she can. "In the Village, it just attacked the Boardman boy."

"What?" I glance back the way she had come in disbelief.

"Dead, Sage," Lily is growing hysteric. "He's dead, and Clay shot at the mutant with Mom's bow. He, he hit it and…it ran off back into the woods. I think it's wounded, I don't know! Clay went after it—"

I cut her off, pushing past both girls and beginning to run home at full speed.

"Sage!" Lily calls after me, trying to catch up. Glade is close behind, confused and trying to get answers as to what is going on.

"Clayton Peaks is here? In 12?"

"Yes," I reply impatiently. Like that is what's important here. A little boy is dead and she's surprised the president's son has dropped in for a visit. "Which way did he go, Lily?" I demand.

"Just past the end of the Village, near that group of evergreens at the edge of the woods. You can't go, Sage, Dad will—"

"Forget Dad!" I snap in return. I could care less about Dad or what he thinks at that moment.

Crossing the Village at a sprint, I spare only a quick glance at the mayhem up the avenue near the Boardman's house. They live at the very edge of the Village, their backyard the closest to the woods than any in the neighborhood. A large group of townspeople has gathered at the sight of the attack. The scene is chaos; nobody notices us pass.

Slipping into the shadows of the tree line several yards down from where Lily said Clay disappeared, I move fast and quietly through the brush, keeping my eye out for signs of a trail when we get near enough. Both girls have followed, and I don't object to their being there though I would rather that they weren't. I don't have time to argue with them to stay behind, however, and simply press forward, hoping they'll either keep up or go home. Glade has no trouble moving through the heavy undergrowth as if she were a stealthy animal herself. Lily, on the other hand, is struggling.

"This is stupid, Sage!" she calls out from behind. "We can't catch up!"

"Quiet!" I stop short and listen intently, impatiently waving at Lily to quit making so much noise. She catches up and kneels gasping on the dusty, leaf strewn ground. I scan the earth, searching until I see it. Blood, heavy drops of it on dead foliage and streaked in the dirt. "This way."

I take off again before Lily can even drag herself to her feet. It is quiet under the trees. I can no longer hear the call of voices in the Village or the wail of Mrs. Boardman for the loss of her son. I hear nothing but wind tearing at the leaves of the trees overhead, sending them cascading and spiraling to the ground. I hear nothing…until the silence is broken by the sudden flight of dozens of mockingjays bursting from their perches and taking to the sky. Their repetitious call echoes with bone-chilling exactness, mimicking the cry of a man in severe pain.

"Clay?" Lily sounds strangled, stopping abruptly and looking pale with frantic eyes on the space through the trees ahead. "Sage, where is he?"

I don't know, but I would make a good bet that he has caught up with the mutant.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

"Stay here!" I command the Lily and Glade to remain behind before I take off through the trees in the direction of Clay's cries of pain. Neither one of them listen, and we crash through the brush catching sight of the beast hunched over with its fangs sunk deep in Clay's bleeding torso. I call out to scare it away, raising my bow and shooting wildly was I run. The arrow flies by the mutant's shoulder without even coming close to a hit. Our pounding steps drive it away from Clay's body, and the mutant crouches on all four limbs, low to the ground in a threatening stance.

I skid to a halt ten feet from the beast and throw out my arms to keep the girls from advancing. Clay is breathing shallow, jagged breaths with wild eyes full of pain staring at the sky. At least he is alive.

My hand finds the handle of the machete hidden in the satchel I still carry from the Gallery, and I tighten my grip as the mutant emits a low, threatened growl. "Don't move," I breathe a warning under my breath and this time the girls listen. Both are panting from our run, and I can feel Lily shaking in fear beside me. All three of us watch the motionless monster stand before us with feelings of horror and disgust. It is hideous, worse even than the wolfish beast that had attacked me. It is naked, or at least that is how it appears since it has no hair or fur whatsoever. Its skin is raw, patchy scales the color of a dying fish. Even from that distance I can smell the grime and reeking sweat off of it. It is smaller than the last mutant with a rat-like tail between its skeletal legs. Its head is too large for its body with a pair of bulging, watery eyes reminiscent of a frog. Clay's arrow is still sticking out of the back of its right shoulder, oozing a sticky cranberry red blood down its protruding line of ribs. My stomach clenches with nauseated revulsion as it bares it jagged line of broken fangs and makes a motion as if to spring.

I release the machete, drop the satchel, and whisk an arrow to my bowstring in one rapid movement. Lily screams and cowers as the mutant leaps with a gut wrenching, guttural shriek. I fire, this time sinking my arrow deep into one of those grotesque, glossy eyes. The mutant flies back with a yelp, collapsing in the dry leaves with a thud before scrambling to its claws and stumbling away through the brush at a gallop.

"Oh my god, oh my god!" Glade attempts to keep her control, eyes filling with terrified tears and her breath coming out in short gasps.

"Are you okay?" I'm having trouble breathing myself.

She isn't able to speak but closes her eyes and nods slowly, clearly distressed. She is doing far better than Lily though, who is on the ground, curled up in a protective stance, and shaking like a leaf.

"Lil!" I lean in and get her to look at me. "Come on, get up."

She takes the hand I offer and stands weakly on her feet, setting her fear aside and focusing on the need at hand. Hurrying to Clay's side, she merges into the competent healer I've known her to be and begins to stanch the blood flow out of his wound with a strong, stable hand. "We need to get him back to the house."

"I'm fine," Clay says weakly, looking pale and clammy.

"No you're not," Lily snaps, looking up at me as I squat down beside them, wanting to see the damage for myself.

I agree that we need to leave, and soon. We can't trust that the mutant is injured enough not to be a threat. Nor do we know if it is the only one nearby. But there is no way we can move Clay all the way back to the house; it's too far. "Can you walk?"

"Probably—"

"No!" Lily stops his efforts to try and sit up. "We need to make a stretcher, anything."

"We can't carry him back to the Village, Lily. It's all uphill from here," I reason. "Someone could see him."

"It's a little late to worry about that, Sage!"

"It's fine, I can walk," Clay tries again.

"No you can't!" Lily and I both yell back at once, and he relents, too weak to argue. "We'll take you to the cabin," I decide. "It's not that far and there's supplies among Mom's things. _Medical_ supplies," I point out, and Lily ascents, nodding and finding clean leaves on the ground to help soak up Clay's blood loss.

Dumping the contents of my satchel on the ground, I quickly find two strong saplings and strip them down, cutting them to equal lengths with the machete. Stripping the fabric of the satchel, I tie the corners in tight knots around the makeshift poles, creating a stretcher to carry Clay. He is certain it won't hold his weight and that we are stupid to even try. I don't care; there is no way he can walk that distance with an open wound. He would bleed out in two minutes, and I'm not going to be responsible for killing the president's only child.

"Help me," I enlist Lily and Glade to take Clay's feet while I lift his shoulders, and we move him to lie flat on the stretcher. "Take a corner and hold it tight, don't drag him."

"Yes, please," Clay contributes blandly, looking ready to pass out from the pain. "Don't drag me."

It's not an easy hike. We stumble and blunder across the uneven ground, tripping over tree roots and exhausting ourselves in our effort. Clay probably would have been better off on his own for all the good we were handling that stretcher. But eventually we make it to the lake as the sun beats down from high in the noon sky. There is a crispness to the air from a breeze off the water which quickly cools us from our hike.

Opening the cabin, I check the interior and find it as Mom and I had last left it on one of our many trips down here. It is our favorite place to camp out while on longer hunting trips which keep us away from home. The concrete floor is well swept, the hearth well stocked with wood, and several crates line the far wall full of supplies.

We set Clay gently down near the fireplace, and Lily immediately goes to work on his wound. There is a first aid kit among the bundles of blankets and cooking utensils in one of the crates. She sends me to retrieve this along with a bottle of white liquor Mom keeps on hand for cooking and cleaning out wounds just like this one. I find some burlap to make fresh bandages and put Glade to work tearing it into long strips. Building a fire, I give the one-room cabin some light and heat before securing the door and covering the single window with thick blackout curtains. Under Mom's intuitive design, the cabin is a far more secure place to spend a night like this than even our house in the Village. Knowing this doesn't lessen my anxiety any, however.

"Sage," Lily calls me away from the window. She douses a large amount of liquor over Clay's wound where she has ripped away his shirt to expose the torn skin. Handing me the bottle, she dabs the row of mangled fang marks with a clean cloth. "Light that lantern and hold it up for me," she commands while threading a needle from the first aid kit.

"Do you know what you're doing?" Clay asks through gritted teeth, wincing every time she makes contact with the wound.

"Yes," she responds curtly, focusing intently on her work.

I return with the lit lantern and kneel behind her, giving her all the light she needs.

"It might hurt a little," Lily tells Clay before positioning her needle to begin stitching him up.

"Wait!" he stops her. "Give me that bottle." Ripping the liquor from my hand, he takes a long swig and hands it back, grimacing against the harsh taste and lying back with his eyes closed against the inevitable. "Do you're thing, darling."

"Don't move." Lily is quick and efficient. I haven't witnessed many medical stitch jobs, but this one looks pretty clean to me.

"Too bad you don't have pictures of this to show your instructor," I mutter, dropping the lantern a few inches to give her more light for the last few stitches.

"Don't think I hadn't thought of that," she responds similarly. "Done," she cuts the thick thread and reaches for the bandages to wrap up the newly closed wound. "Can you roll over on your side, Clay?"

With a great deal of strain, he does as she asks, clenching his jaw to keep from crying out in renewed pain.

"Does it still hurt that bad?" Lily looks alarmed.

"No," he grimaces. "It's not that, it's my ribs. I think I cracked a few when that ugly bastard knocked me down. It probably gave me whiplash too; my neck feels out of whack."

Lily feels his ribs carefully with prodding fingers, frowning at what she finds. "Alright, I'll wrap them tight; that should help. As long as you're careful, they should heal just fine on their own."

"Do you need a neck rub?" Glade moves forward and, to my surprise, digs right in loosening Clay's sore muscles with too familiar hands. She catches my incredulous look and returns with a daring glare. "You danced with Blondie," she is quick to remind me, and I have no argument to stand on.

When Lily finishes, we lay Clay back down flat on the floor with a blanket beneath him. I toss more wood on the fire and search the supplies for something to eat. We don't usually keep much food in the cabin, but there are some spices, a few canned goods, and an airtight bag of dried meat, fruit, and nuts. Passing it around, I pick up a bucket used for drawing water from the lake and grab my bow. "I'll be back," I tell the others.

"Where are you going?" Glade asks.

"Just for water," I lie and slip out. I'll get the water, but not before I have a look around. I want to be sure that we weren't trailed by anything human or otherwise. I won't be able to relax at the cabin without securing our surroundings, and maybe bag us some fresh meat for dinner.

I circle the landscape three yards out from the cabin, moving slow and listening for any sound of movement in the brush. A few scrawny winter birds fly from branch to branch overhead watching me as I work my way through roots and fallen leaves keeping my eye out for tracks: footprints, scat, broken twigs, snags of fur or hair, anything that would suggest something other than us has been here recently. There is nothing out of the ordinary behind the cabin and I shoot one of the birds along with a fleeing squirrel before making my way back to the lake.

Picking up my bucket I had left by the cabin door, I leave my kill and head to the beach. The shore is mostly lined with rocks, but there is a thin bar of sand edged with reeds in a shallow corner not far from the cabin. The water is ice cold when I dip my bucket in and slosh it up my arm. Despite the bright sun high in the sky, the air has a crisp, fall chill to it that is a drastic change to the recent Indian summer we had been experiencing. The sky is a pale, robin's egg blue, and I hear a flock of migrating geese skim by high above the treetops. Fall is finally here, and winter is not far off. There will be frost on the ground tonight, maybe ice on the lake in a few days if it remains this cool.

I don't mind. Fall has always been my favorite season, and there is something to be said for the refreshing beauty of the first snowfall. Tracking mutants would be far easier with a white carpet to capture claw prints. But right now I just want to get back to the warmth of the fire.

Picking up my bucket, I turn to retrace my footsteps up to the cabin when I stop. There in a dry patch of sand is a clear and definite footprint. Not footprint…paw print. I stoop for a better look. It might be a wolf but no, it looks too elongated with thicker, wider pads before the toe joints. This is a print for a rear limb, and I notice that it doesn't have four claws, but five. Not a dewclaw, but an actual fifth toe print, like a human. The print itself is almost as long as an adult male foot, over twice the size of a full grown wolf track.

I glance around warily, checking the surrounding trees and peering over the tops of the tall reeds. The lake is dead of movement or sound.

Examining the print again, I notice that the sand is dry, only a little damp in the center of the pad impression. This print is at least a day old. And there is another, slightly less obvious, but close enough to have been the mate of this print. Looking for more, I find only a trace of smudged ground moving off toward some long grass. All rear paw prints, no front claws; this beast was walking on only hind legs.

Grabbing up my bucket and bow, I hurry back to the cabin, scanning the ground for any other sign of the mutant's tracks. I don't see any more footprints, but notice something that I hadn't before. There are claw scratch marks on the window frame, smudges on the glass, and a crack in the pane that I am sure wasn't there the last time Mom and I were here. The outside of the door also has a few scratch marks and it makes me wonder why the mutant hadn't tried harder to get in. By the look of those prints, it was obviously big enough to force its entry if it really had wanted to.

I pick up the squirrel and bird carcasses and pass one last glance around the lake before slipping inside and securing the door behind me. I have no wish to alarm Lily or Glade, so I keep my findings to myself, only passing a look to Clay when I enter, stopping him from asking any questions. His eyebrows nit in curiosity, but he doesn't say anything, settling back in the makeshift pallet the girls have made for him and closing his eyes to sleep.

I hand off the water to Lily and call Glade over to the corner to teach her how to properly skin an animal for eating. She's still looking tired and nervous, but also a little exhilarated by everything that has happened. "Do you think you killed it?" she asks, lowering her voice just for me.

I shake my head negatively. "It could bleed out from Clay's arrow, but mine just took its eye. I doubt it even pierced too deep into the skull; otherwise it never would have been able to run off like that. I shot it at a weird angle," I make excuses, not all too thrilled with my poor archery efforts that morning. "It's probably off licking its wounds in some hole. Hopefully some other animal will come by and pick it off for good."

Glade makes a face at the thought. "I don't know what animal would want that thing for dinner. It was absolutely revolting."

I agree completely. "Here," I hand the gutless squirrel over, having just removed all its entrails. "Grab the fur here and pull." She makes a good effort but just doesn't have the strength to remove it in one tough yank. I give her my pocketknife and let her go at it, tearing the pellet from the sinewy muscle. There isn't much to this squirrel even after months of foraging. I should go out and find more, but just don't want to.

Leaning against the cabin wall, I pick up the bird and begin plucking away the feathers with an exhausted sigh.

"You're tired," Glade notices.

"Nah," I deny it.

"Are you worried?" she glances up from her work and meets my eye, betraying her own concern in hers.

"No," I tell her honestly. Not worried really, just anxious. I don't like not knowing what's out there or how to handle it. I can track and hunt down any animal. All of Mom's training has taught me how beasts think and act, but these mutants are no simple mammal or bird, they're unpredictable killers. If it was just me out here, or even Clay and I…fine. But I don't want anything to happen to Glade or Lily. "We're safe here," I assure her. "We're going to find the mutants and kill them. If we don't, my mom will."

Glade smiles softly, placing a warm hand on mine and leaning in for a soft kiss of gratitude. "You were amazing this morning, shooting that mutant. Almost as amazing as your famous parents."

"Almost?"

"Close enough," she teases with another kiss.

"Thanks," I return the favor, "but you're getting squirrel guts on my pants."

"Oh," she jerks her hand back as I laugh. Picking up the naked carcass, Glade waves it in my face, slapping me gently on the face with a grimy palm. "Thanks for the grub, smartass."

We are interrupted by Lily yelling at Clay to stay put on his pallet, holding down his shoulders while he tries to roll over and get to his feet. "You can't aggravate the wound again! You'll break the stiches, lay down!"

"Let go of me, princess," Clay gives her a warning. "I've got to use the little boy's room, and I'm not doing it here, so lay off!"

"You can use—"

"If you hand me a bedpan I'll whip it at the window," Clay threatens seriously, grabbing both of Lily's wrists and forcefully, but gently moves her away. "Help me up, kid," he enlists my assistance to pacify her a little. "I'm going to relieve myself outside."

I support him under the arm while he wobbles to his feet and holds his side, groaning a little from the pain but keeping his color and composure. "I'm fine," he assures Lily and moves slowly to the door.

"Don't either of you go out alone," I tell the girls, grabbing my bow propped against the fireplace. "Not even to use the bathroom. Go together and take the machete, got it?"

Glade nods, understanding the warning in my expression before I shut the door. "Lock this behind me." Leading Clay by the arm, I steer him passed the window. "Look," I nod at it, "see those scratches? Don't bend down," I roll my eyes as Clay leans in, grimacing in pain. "Just look at it. See it?"

"I guess."

"And the broken glass?"

"Yeah…what? A mutant?"

"I think so," I nod. "There are tracks down by the water."

"You're sure?" Clay considers this news seriously, stopping just around the corner of the cabin and using the wall as support as he unloads his bladder.

"Positive. They're too canine to be human but about the size of man's foot with five toes. Rear claw prints too, not front."

"An upright mutant," Clay understands.

"Yeah," I watch our surroundings warily. "You think it's the one? The human mutant, or whatever?"

"The _Humant_?" Clay asks humorously.

"Sure."

"Could be," he shrugs and rights himself, turning around when finished. "Just because it walks on two legs and tries to break into cabins doesn't mean it's all that intelligent though."

"No," I suppose not.

"But there have been an awful lot of mutant sightings around here. It would only make sense for him to flee south after escaping 13, meet his fellow comrades halfway."

"Then they could be close," I reason. "All of them."

"Let's hope so," Clay responds blandly, working his way back up to the cabin door.

I spot a plump muskrat waddling around near a fallen log by the water and take aim. Hitting it dead in the head, I run down to retrieve it, hoisting its hefty carcass by the scruff of the neck. Well, somebody ate well this summer at least. "Glade!" I call out just outside the open door. "I've got another one for you."

We decide to spend the night. Clay can't move too far anyway, and there's no reason to go home. I'm sure the mayor is wondering what happened to his daughter, but Glade seems to find it funny that her family might be worried rather than concerned over their distress. "They'll get over it," she shrugs. "He needs to get used to it; I'm not going to be around forever."

"He'll send someone to find you," I point out.

"Let him," she still doesn't care. "It won't do any good. I'm not going anywhere until we find those mutants."

I love her for her determination and can't help but smile. "We better work on your archery skills then, Soldier Orwell."

We spend the afternoon taking practice shots at a target leaning against a tree a few feet from the cabin. Clay sleeps most of the afternoon but joins us outside in the early evening to sit against the doorframe and graciously give us 'advice' on the proper way to shoot. Lily isn't seen for hours, tucked away inside going through each and every item in the supply crates and organizing everything to exhaustion. When the sun begins to dip and the chill increases, we return to the cabin to find a cozy little makeshift home with bed pallets for each of us, a crate table covered in a spare piece of canvas and set with place settings for four. The fire is roaring and filling the room with light and warmth as it simmers a hearty smelling stew of squirrel, muskrat, and barely oats.

"Wow," Clay is impressed. "Just like home."

"They serve muskrat in the Capitol?" I ask.

Clay shoves me ungraciously toward the table, wincing in pain from the strain on his wound. "It looks fabulous, Lily."

I catch her blush as she turns to the cast iron pot hanging over the fire to stir the stew. Maybe she doesn't hate him so much after all.

We sit down on the floor to eat under the light of the lantern set in the center of the table. Mom and I have never had any meal this fancy while staying at the cabin. Our meals usually are hit and run, eaten out of cold tin cans or speared off the end of a sharpened stick and roasted over the fire. It feels like another place entirely under Lily's magical touch, and I can't say that I mind the change.

It is a quiet dinner, filling and satisfying. Even more so with Glade settled in beside me with her fingers entwined in mine. You would think this is a carefree vacation rather than a break before a bloody hunt for deadly mutants. I've almost forgotten why we're here.

"I don't think I've tasted a better stew," Clay sits back from his empty dish with satisfaction.

"That's just because you were hungry," Lily points out.

"I wasn't," he shakes his head. "I wasn't even sure I wanted to eat before I smelled it."

She simply shrugs off the compliment, scrunching up her nose thoughtfully. "I prefer potatoes over barley, but it worked I guess."

"Sure did," Clay catches her eye, and Lily has to look away again before flushing red.

"So…why do you hate him again?" I ask for the sole purpose of getting her riled. It works as Lily shoots me an icy glare for even bringing it up. "Something about a Presidential picnic or something…"

"Presidential Ball," Clay corrects me.

"Stop it," Lily is not pleased.

"Ooh, you went to a Presidential Ball?" Glade gets excited.

"No."

"I think you did," Clay grins mildly at Lily's scowl.

"I did, but I don't want to talk about it."

"It wasn't that bad, nobody even noticed."

"_Everybody_ noticed!" she exclaimed, and now I'm really curious.

"Why don't I remember this?"

" 'Cause you weren't there," Lily explains. "This happened when I went on that trip to the Capitol with Dad last year."

"It was my Mom's birthday celebration at the mansion," Clay adds, much to Lily's annoyance. "There were two separate dances, one for the old folks, the wine and dine high society set shuffling through their waltzes and sloshing their champagne. While that was going on in the main ballroom, us kids," he stresses the word with mimed finger quotes, "we had our own separate party in the adjoining conservatory. Music, food, spiked punch—"

"You spiked the punch?" Lily cuts in.

"Not me," Clay feigns innocents, catching my eye and betraying the truth with a covert grin. "Anyway, there was a whole group of us, all diplomat kids, big business mogul offspring, and the like…bunch of privileged yuppies the lot of them, but tolerable under certain influences."

"Barely," Lily snorts derisively.

"You didn't seem to mind the company of one Bryant Shoal…" Clay is quick to remind her before muttering in ungracious undertones, "jackass."

"He was not!" Lily exclaims. "He was perfectly respectable."

"Yes perfect," Clay responds snidely. "A perfect jackass, that's exactly what I meant."

Lily just rolls her eyes and allows him to continue while maintaining her hostile expression.

"I don't know why you were so upset; I was just trying to help you out. I was just trying to help her out," he repeats as if trying to convince us. I believe him; I just want to know why. "A few of us were talking about taking a dip in the pool. The dance was getting heated, everybody wanted to cool off, so we grabbed some cold drinks and a group of us headed downstairs. Some jumped in fully clothed…others exhibited more freewill. Lily opted to stay dry on account of the fact that she didn't want to ruin her new skirt. So I helped make it an easier decision for her." He stopped there, not bothering to explain any further. Both Glade and I looked from him to Lily, waiting.

"He pulled down my skirt," she said shortly, looking annoyed at having to make it plain, "in front of everybody."

I laugh at loud at this. "That's it?"

"Sage!" Lily looks appalled. "It was embarrassing!"

"Yeah, but…if everybody else was—"

"I didn't want to take off my clothes! I was just fine!"

"She was just upset 'cause Shoal saw her pretty pink underpants," Clay chuckles into his bottled water.

Lily glowers at him from across the table. "I hate you."

Glade and I can't help but laugh at her expense. I mean, it really is ridiculous, but leave it to Lily to hold a grudge over something so insignificant. "Wow, Lil, that's pathetic."

"You're pathetic," she grumbles. "All of you."

I take the first watch that night, sitting up to keep the fire going and to listen for approaching intruders outside. The others attempt to get comfortable on the cold, hard ground before the fire, and I sit close to the flames facing the door with my bow in my lap. I'm tired, but couldn't sleep if I tried. So much has happened in such little time. I had just been in the Capitol experiencing the nightlife of the city and experiencing it badly. Now, back in my familiar mountains, I'm chasing down mutants and sleeping on a cold cabin floor. I can't quite get my head around everything that has happened.

"Sage?"

I look over and see Glade's eyes glint in the firelight. "Yeah? Can't you sleep?"

"No," she shakes her head and looks warily at the other two, not wanting to wake them up. "I'm cold."

"Come here," I motion her closer to the fire, and she gets up and moves her pallet, snuggling in next to me with her head on my stomach. I cover her with her blanket again as well as give her half of mine. "Is that better?"

"Yeah," she nods, her voice sounding muffled against my shirt. "Nothing is going to come through that door tonight, is it?"

"Not if I can help it." My fingers find her hair and I play with it gently, brushing it back from her soft cheek and tucking it behind her ear. "You should sleep."

"I can't. I keep thinking about that mutant. Every time I close my eyes I see it and it freaks me out."

"It's probably dead by now."

"So," she argues, "I can still see it with its scaly skin, bulging eyes, and—"

"Okay stop," I interrupt her. I don't need that reminder either. "Just…don't think about it."

"Then distract me," she tells me. "Give me something else to think about that will help me sleep. Tell me about the Capitol, what does it look like?"

"You've never been there?"

"Don't make fun of me," Glade admonishes.

"I'm not. I'm just surprised. You haven't even gone with your dad?"

"Nope," she shakes her head, shifting where she lays so that she can look up at me. "So tell me. What's it like?"

"You don't want to know," I put her off. There are better things to talk about.

"Yes I do. Just tell me. Tell me 'til I fall asleep."

I sigh and begrudgingly give in and rack my brain to think of something good about the Capitol to describe to her. "There's lots of people," I begin. "Lots more than here, more than any District, even 2. They all live in the city which is surrounded by mountains bigger than ours. There's a huge lake right in the city that looks like a pool of glass, you can see it as soon as the train pulls in. And tall towers that look over all the other houses," as I talk, I continue to run my fingers through her hair until she begins to get drowsy. Her eyelids flutter and close as she relaxes into me. She gives a small lick of her lips as she settles in and I am tempted to kiss them just to keep her awake. Suddenly the thought of being awake on my own in that place doesn't seem that appealing.

"It's not as great as it seems when you see it for the first time," I continue. "Everyone is always so busy, rushing about without caring about what anyone else is doing. To get out of the city into the trees and mountains, you have to know the secret ways and how to get through the gates. There are always guards and Keepers of the Peace everywhere just ready to tell you off for any little thing. And the mansion…the president's mansion? Yeah, not as great as you would think. It's actually run down, full of old antiques that nobody lets you touch. It's really quite lousy," I laugh lightly. "I'd much rather be here…" I look down and see that Glade is asleep, breathing softly and looking beautiful under the glow of the fire, "with you." Leaning in, I steel a kiss anyway, brushing her cheek with my finger.

I wake early the next morning to Lily and Clay arguing, again. Clay had relieved me sometime during the night to take the second watch, and I had curled up next to Glade, sleeping with an arm around her to keep her warm. The fire had all but died, mere red coals glowing in the dim predawn gray. The cabin is as cold as a crypt, the floor damp and as comfortable as a coffin within. Glade rolls over with a groan, complaining about her sore back and shivering under our thin blankets.

"It's freezing!" she exclaims with chattering teeth. Attempting to sit up, she looks around for her shoes which she had discarded the night before. I don't allow her to get far, holding her tight so she is unable to leave our little cocoon and take what little heat she carries with her. Glade smiles disapprovingly, "We should get up."

"Not yet," I murmur from under the blanket. She protests again, but doesn't pull away as I encircle her in my arms and tuck the covers back in snug. Her breath is warm on my neck where she lays with her head against my shoulder, and I gently rub her back with the flat of my palm. Her hair smells like wood smoke and fresh autumn air. Finding her cool forehead with my lips, I kiss it softly before going in search of her ear, working my way down her jawline to her coy, awaiting smile.

"What are they fighting about now?" she asks, referring to Clay and Lily.

"I dunno," I respond carelessly, completely unconcerned with my sister at that moment.

Glade covers a giggle and meets her mouth with mine, returning my advances with an encouraging response.

"Oi, Mellark!" Clay demands my attention from across the room

"What?" I ask shortly, not appreciating the interruption.

"We've got to go, mate."

"No, you don't!' Lily interrupts decidedly. "You won't get ten feet with that wound, Clayton."

"Then let's hope the mutants aren't far," he mutters, striding stiffly but quickly around the cabin, grabbing supplies and shoving them in a lightweight satchel. "You coming or not?" he asks me, not about to wait around for long.

"Yeah," I'm up and moving now, gathering my own belongings and checking my weapons.

Lily shoots me a vehement glare. "You're going to kill him," she snaps. "Or yourself, which is just as likely."

"Thanks," I shoot back. _Nice confidence in me, sis._ "We know what we're doing."

"Do you?" Lily crosses her arms challengingly. "You don't even know where you're going or what you'll find when you get there."

"We're going where the mutant tracks lead us which can only mean we'll find mutants at the end of the trail," Clay tells her sardonically while checking the sharpness of a knife against his thumb.

"And what if there are too many?" Lily continues to argue.

"I don't count my mutants before they're skewered, darlin'." He gently but firmly moves her out of his way to retrieve one of our spare hunting jackets in a crate in the corner, wincing in pain at the effort it takes to even walk that far.

"You're bleeding again," Lily notes the fresh splotch of growing red on his bandages through the tear in Clay's shirt. He ignores her observation, slipping stiffly into the outerwear and zipping up the front to hide the wound without comment. "You probably broke the stitches."

"Let's go, Sage," he grumbles, not even looking at her on his way to the door.

"Wait!" Glade looks alarmed, stepping out from the blanket still draped over her shoulders where she stands next to the mantle. "You're not going without us!"

"That was the plan, doll, yes," Clay informs her.

"Sage!" she looks to me for help and, quite honestly, I can't meet her eye. What the girls don't realize is that while exchanging watch shifts in the night, Clay and I had decided that it would be better if we left them there, at the cabin, where it was safe. I knew Glade would react like this though, especially after all that archery practice yesterday. She sees the truth betrayed in my expression, and her eyes grow wide in disbelief. "No way!" she reacts forcefully. "I am not getting left behind."

"But you are though," Clay is too impatient for this. "So…lock the doors behind us. We'll—"

"I'm NOT getting left behind!" Glade screeches once more, grabbing up a bow and setting an arrow in one swift movement, aiming it at Clay's foot. "And unless you want to drag a bleeding foot into the mutant's lair, I'd take a moment to reconsider."

Clay looks at me to judge whether or not to take this fiery, green-eyed threat seriously. I merely shrug and grin, more amused than surprised by Glade's response to our efforts to exclude her. "You heard her," I shoulder my own pack and lean against the door frame nonchalantly. "How much do you value your foot?"

"Rather a lot," Clay's jaw twitches in frustration before he sighs with an exasperated glance out the window. Time is wasting, and he doesn't have the energy to argue anymore. "Alright," he gives in. "Just be sure you keep up. And stay behind us if the mutants attack, got it?" He looks at Lily with this warning, pointing with an emphasizing thrust of his knife.

She has suddenly gone a little pale, her eyes wide with panic. "I'm not going," she shakes her head weakly. "You three are crazy; you're going to get killed!"

"You've got to, Lil," I tell her. "We're not leaving you here by yourself. If Glade's coming, you've got to too."

"No," she shakes her head again with more determination, taking a step back from the three of us. "No, I'll go home. I'll find Haymitch, tell him where you are and send more help."

"Not a chance, sweetheart," Clay's eyes flash in anger. "You're not walking anywhere in these woods alone and we don't have time to waste escorting you back to town. Abernathy can't know what we're doing, no one can know, got it? Grab some stuff," he motions toward the supply crates. "Take this," he pulls the machete from his belt and hands it over by the hilt so she can get a hold of the handle. "If nothing else, you can ward them off until one of us can take them out with an arrow."

Lily looks at the blade in horror, retreating further toward the dying fire. "I can't," she is nearly crying, and I almost feel bad for her. Lily is completely out of her element here. We might have been raised by the same set of parents, but she has never been that comfortable wielding a weapon.

"Come on," I attempt to encourage her, moving forward and taking the machete myself. Reaching for her wrist, I gently raise her arm and force her to take the blade in her hand. "Just take it, let's go."

"I want to go home," she whimpers, two tears dripping from her eyelashes and dropping off her chin.

"I know, and we will, after—"

"You made the choice to come out here," Clay interrupts sharply, not helping in the least. I want to deck him for his tone and insistency on making my sister feel about two inches tall. "If you wanted to stay in the safety of your Victory Village, you never should have left it."

"Shut up, man—"

"I came out here for you," Lily cuts me off, her vehemence returning like a roaring fire in her piercing glare. "I came out here because you were stupid enough to chase after that mutant in the first place!"

"To kill that murdering bastard, yeah!" Clay shoots back.

"And thank God I did!" Lily isn't deterred, dropping the machete on the floor and missing the toes of my left shoe by mere inches. "Who would have stitched you up if I hadn't? You would have bled out on the forest floor, and then what?"

"Well, I'd be rid of you!"

"For God's sake," Glade snaps, shutting them both up. "Are we going to track down those mutants or not?"

"I am," I drop Lily's wrist, pick up my bow and march to the door, sick of both of them and their unresolved issues. I wish they would just kiss and make up already, break the oppressive tension and get on with it. "Let's go, Lil. We might just need you to save us again, so bring your medical supplies." I stop at the door, unlocking it and pulling it open before grabbing Glade's hand. Glancing between both brooding expressions on Lily's and Clay's dark faces I pass them a frustrated glare of my own. "Don't forget the machete."

It takes us longer than we had hoped to finally get out the door and on our way. The sun is creeping up the top of the eastern hills, glistening against the drifting mist spread out over the surface of the lake. There is no wind, not even a breeze, just the stinging chill of late fall which turns our breath to frost and immediately causes my nose to run. "It smells like snow," I sniff.

"I wouldn't mind a little snow," Clay agrees with my notion that it would make tracking that much easier.

"I love snow," Glade inputs, "just not the cold that brings it." Her nose is bright red after our short jaunt beyond the cabin as we follow the tracks of the mutant veering off northwest away from the lake. I take her hand to help her over an outcropping of jagged rock, searching the dry ground for more signs in which to stake our next move.

"See anything?" I ask Clay. The last evidence we had seen was already a good four yards back, a smudged set of prints pointed this direction. I assume that the mutant climbed the rocks for a better view and to maybe sniff the air for prey or in search of a new path.

Clay squats with some difficulty, breathing hard and trying his best not to emit any sounds of weakness from his pain. "Nothing. Not on these stones." Glancing around, he frowns in concentration. I know what he's doing. He's doing what I'm doing, trying to think like our prey, to get a good lead on it with a mind for what it would have done in the absence of evidence of what it did do. But how do you think like a twisted, lab created monster?

"I wish I knew how that…_Humant_ managed to gather other mutants to it," I mutter.

"Yeah…" Clay rubs the stubble on his jaw and glances at the girls waiting a few feet away, waiting for us to lead them on in the right direction. I follow his gaze, noting Lily's continued look of fear as she checks over her shoulder with a nervous twitch, jumping at any little sound in the brush. "Remember the Hunger Games footage?" Clay keeps his voice low and face expressionless so as not to include Lily and Glade on our conversation.

"Of course," I lower my voice accordingly.

"Do you recall how the mutants always seemed to attack or retreat on command, even though there wasn't always a verbal alert from the Game Designers in the control station?"

"I guess…"

"The final Quarter Quell, the last year your parents were Tributes, the ape mutants—"

"They were on a timer," I get it now, looking up in alarm.

Clay nods, "An internal timer connected to some sort of outside force dictating their every move. I can't be sure, but it would make sense if every mutant was designed with the ability to be controlled, wouldn't it?"

"Yeah it would." It made perfect sense. Accept one thing… "But then how is a mutant controlling other mutants?"

Clay barely refrains from rolling his eyes, clearly one step ahead of me. "You don't listen to your Mom much do you?"

I shrug, not sure what that had to do with anything. I'm insulted a little, but still quite lost.

"The Humant built his little domain out of stolen supplies from District 13's compound," Clay points out. "I did a little digging in the Capitol before jumping a ride on your train home," he shifts uncomfortably, sitting down on the slab of rock to take the weight off his side. The girls look a little surprised, but soon follow suit, Glade blowing the hair out of her face and plopping down near a scraggly bush. ("Well, if you're gonna sit…")

"So?" I press Clay to continue.

"So I found out that some of the missing items found in this beast's little den were electronic. Sonar and communication equipment decommissioned after the discontinuation of the Games. How that bastard knew they were in there, I don't know. But it explains why he was in 13 in the first place."

"God," I raise my eyebrows in disbelief. This whole thing is a lot more complicated than I imagined. "This is insane."

"Something like that," Clay mutters in agreement. "That's not all though."

"What?"

"I also got a crack at Mom's maps of the Wild Territory outside of 13. It was all gridded out and marked where the Humant staked his claim. According to the elevation reading, his lair was located at one of the highest points off some rocky hills. He needed height for a clear signal to reach the distance it would take to control the other mutants."

I look at him in surprise, hitting on what he is trying to get at. "Right," getting to my feet I glance at our surroundings with a new perspective. "This way!"

"Did you find more tracks?" Glade stands abruptly, ready to move on. Lily follows quickly behind her, and both girls help Clay up off the ground, though Lily with an air of icy disregard.

"Not yet," I respond, already several feet ahead and still climbing the steepening terrain. "But I don't need them. I know where we're going."

"Where?"

I glance back over my shoulder and meet Lily's eye. "Hawthorne's Bluff."

"Hawthorne's Bluff?" Glade wrinkles her nose in confusion. "Where's that? Why have I never heard of it?"

"You wouldn't," I tell her, struggling to catch my breath through the strenuous climb. "No one knows it as Hawthorne's Bluff but us. Mom named it, after an old friend of hers who used to live in District 12. He used to hunt with her before the Hunger Games and Uprising. This bluff was a favorite place of theirs; they used to go there often after a long hunt to rest before heading home. It's one of the highest vantage points in the woods, you can see for miles." I look at Clay this time and he nods, agreeing that I have the right idea. The sight of him fighting through his pain to keep up in the climb slows me down, but I say nothing. Clay won't want sympathy and we don't need another argument to interfere with our hunt. The sun has already moved high in the sky; we have wasted enough time already.

Hawthorne's Bluff is a good two miles from the lake, an uphill climb which would weary a healthy man well practiced in hiking such terrain. I am the closest to fit that description and even I am breathing as if socked in the gut with aching limbs eager for a rest. I wonder why the summit of this sacred bluff had to be Mom's favorite hangout, or why the Humant couldn't have found some other place to transmit his call for congregation. There had to be better locations closer to the ground, I'm sure.

All of us feel the exhaustion of the hike, but none so much as Clay. Despite his insistency to keep moving, we force him to take breaks every few yards just to breathe. Lily changes his bandages twice, frowning at the damage Clay has done to his stitches but not saying a word, much to her credit.

"How much further?" Clay gasps, squirting water into his mouth and spitting it back into the dirt without swallowing. There is still a deep chill in the air, but he is drenched in sweat, sitting propped against a boulder with his shirt off while Lily kneels beside him and tapes fresh bandages over his side.

Running a hand through my own sweat dampened hair, I look to the east and consider the distance left to travel. "Quarter of a mile maybe," I guess. "That bend up ahead, it turns left and climbs a short stair. After that the ground begins to level off and once we're out of the trees there will be a grassy hill top before a drop off, a steep rock wall that drops back to the forest floor. That's it, that's the Bluff."

Clay nods, considering this information with gritted teeth against the pain in his torso. "What else is up there? Is it all open, or is there cover? Any caves or heavy brush?"

I think about this a second; it has been a long time since I've been up this far. "A rock shelf, to the south, just where we'll emerge from the trees. It juts out several feet and there is shade beneath it. There's room for maybe two or three grown men, I think. We used to play there when Mom brought us up here when we were little." I look at Lily for confirmation and she nods, standing up and placing her first aid gear back in her shoulder pack.

"That'll be where he is hiding then," Clay assumes. "And any others that have reached this far could be lurking anywhere around there…around here."

We all search the terrain with the sudden uncomfortable feeling that maybe we should have been more cautious up until now. I have been too intent on finding the mutant on the bluff I haven't given much thought to what might find us before we get there.

"Weapons out, people," Clay pushes slips back into this shirt with a grunt and a grimace. "Stealth mode from here on out." Reaching for Lily's discarded machete, he picks it up and hands it back to her, not letting go until she looks him in the eye. "Don't let go of this," he tells her seriously, but without the condescension of before. "Stick it in your belt if you have to use both of your hands, but never set it down."

Lily nods slowly, gripping the weapon tightly as Clay lets go and struggles to his feet. She appears a bit flustered and hangs back a few steps as we continue our ascent, moving east and then north through dusty paths between sheer slabs of rock and overhanging boulders. I can see the stairs of stone ahead in the distance as the day grows dark with a wall of dense gray clouds stretching across the sky. A new level of cold settles over us, and I notice Glade shiver beside me.

"Cold?" I ask, taking her hand. Her fingers are like ice.

"That too," she mutters, betraying the anxiety in her eyes.

"Don't worry," I assure her. "Just shoot straight, just like we practiced."

Glade nods and swallows, unable to give a confident reply.

"You said that rock shelf is just past the stair?" Clay steps up alongside us. I nod. The stair, the shelf, then the bluff, with little but tall grass and a few scraggly berry bushes in between. "Okay," Clay nods, stepping off the path and hoisting himself up the nearest boulder. "We need to get higher, get a good look around." He reached down for Lily's hand to help her up and Glade and I soon follow.

Clay makes for a small cluster of towering pines which stand like elongated fingers pointing to the sky. They are near the edge of the tree line and will give us good cover from anything on the bluff ahead.

"You can't climb that!" Lily exclaims in a screeching whisper, trying to keep her harried voice down. Clay continues to lead her by the hand and is forced to stop when she stubbornly plants her feet, looking up at the ladder-like branches in distress. "You're going to—"

"Kill myself?" he interrupts her blandly. "Yeah, we've heard your opinion, sweetheart, and thanks, but that's what you said about our little hike up the hill. Pretty sure I'm still here."

Lily opens her mouth to retort, but he cuts her off again, grabbing her around the waist and hoisting her up onto the nearest branch before she can protest further. "This tree's ours," he informs me. "Get your own."

I can't help but grin, catching Glade's eye. She shares my humor and seems to relax a bit in the moment, following me to a nearby pine and allowing me to help her into it. I swing onto the lowest branch behind her, and we climb as high as we can go. Propping my weight on a sturdy branch, I position myself directly behind Glade to help support her and shelter her from the brisk and bitter wind driving in from the northwest.

I can see movement in the neighboring tree and find Clay and Lily where they cling to the trunk, swaying in the breeze. Clay catches my eye and motions down, pointing at the ground. I look and see what he is indicating, my heart racing suddenly at the sight of something moving low along the ground not far from the base of our hideout. They know we're here.

"What—"

"Shh," I clasp a hand over Glade's mouth to shut her up, twisting around for a better look as the mutant sniffs around in the dry bed of needles and tree roots below. I can't see it well enough to tell just what it is. From that distance the only predominant feature is its fur, which seems to cover the majority of its body. It crawls on all fours with a small head sniffing the ground with great, guttural breaths I can hear even over the wind. It looks more like a bear than a mutation of science. I might have mistaken it for such except for one unsettling, distinguishing characteristic: this beast has wings.

"_Sage_," Glade emits a muffled exclamation of fear, her eyes widening at the sight of that thing lurking around our tree. It can smell us, that much is obvious. What I'm anxious to see is just how well it can fly.

Apparently not as well as it can climb. Opting for claws over wings, the mutant begins to follow our ascent into the lower branches of our pine and disappears out of my sightline. Glade clutches to the trunk of the tree, her mouth clenched against the urge to scream in terror. I grab my knife from its holster on my belt, the only weapon of use I have at that height. Attempting to shoot an arrow blindly into the pine needles below would mean using two hands and letting go of my hold on Glade and the tree. I'm left with a measly six inch blade to fend off a fast approaching fur bag with fangs.

The closer it gets the more Glade panics. All that practice with a bow is useless in this lousy tree, and I regret ever having closed us in so carelessly. Casting a dark look toward Clay in the opposite pine, I kindly recall whose idea it was to climb in the first place. It is not him that I see at first, but the tip of his arrow before it centers on the mutant and flies off his taut bow string, striking the animal in its side and causing it to fall with a deafening crunch, breaking bone against rock ten feet below.

After watching it fall, I glance up in surprise. Clay tosses me a careless grin, lowering his bow with a nod before extricating himself from Lily's grip around his waist where she held him to keep them both steady as he took his shot. Genius, I return the grin with a grateful nod of my own. "You can let go now," I inform Glade, placing a reassuring hand over her white knuckled fist clinging to a side branch. "Clay took care of the mutant."

"Can he take care of those too?" she asks.

I glance down and follow her terrified gaze to the open ground beyond the tree line. In the clearing near the summit of the overlooking bluff a herd of mutants cluster around a single, standing figure, the leader of this grisly pack. Cursing under my breath, I turn and whistle low, getting Clay's attention and motioning for him to see what we see. He appears to sit and stare a moment before turning back and miming for us to drop out of our tree and meet them back on the ground. I do a careful search for any oncoming mutants before helping Glade descend, jumping the last few feet and landing just inches from the dead mutant still oozing blood from its gory skull. Glade goes a little pale seeing it up close and has to turn away, clamping her mouth shut to either keep from screaming, vomiting, or both.

"How many?" Clay asks before anything else.

"Fifty at least," I respond in low tones, watching the stone stair for movement, thankful we are downwind from the pack of organized freaks of nature.

"Right…" Clay agrees, "we need to split up."

"What?" Glade looks alarmed. "We can't take them all! We need to go back for help."

"No time," I agree with Clay. I'm not sure what is being planned up there, but the Humant obviously has one and no doubt has every intention of implementing it soon.

"But…" Glade's voice is so high pitched it comes out as a squeak I would find cute in less perilous situations. "We don't have enough arrows."

"Don't need them," I point out.

"Nope," Clay backs me up, "just one."

Both Glade and Lily look confused, following suite as Clay and I drop low into the shadows of brush and boulder, moving slow with our bows out, arrows at the ready. Without having to discuss strategy, we know what needs to be done. I haven't known Clay for long, but it isn't hard to read his mind. When it comes to taking out prey, we think and act the same. He didn't have to mention it for me know where it was that he learned his skills as a bowman. Mom has mentioned more than once that the man whom this bluff was named after has been training Panem staff in Weapons Handling in District 2 for years. Glade may not have recognized the name of Hawthorne, but Clay sure did. We were practically trained by same person. Same style, same approach.

As we near the rock shelf, the Humant's hideout, Clay points with a quick thrust of his finger for me to take left while he eases right. The girls stay close on our tails as we make our separate ways around the corners of the shelter beneath the jutting stone ceiling pointing like a saluting soldier's arm toward the northern horizon. We reach the interior of the mutant's makeshift cave almost simultaneously, stopped short by the horrid stench and the disturbing sight awaiting us.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

"Oh, God," Glade covers her mouth with her hand, grimacing against the acrid wall of air we run into. The dusty floor beneath the rock shelf is littered with grimy bone and tufts of scattered hair. A rancid pile of dry meadow grass fills the far side of the tight cave, forming a sort of rough bedding only an animal would find suitable. On the ground just before it sits a metal cube no bigger than a toaster and rusted in spots with a worn leather strap riveted into two sides for a carrying band. The corners seem to have been crudely welded shut, making it impossible to open to get at the wiring inside. On the top, facing up, are two plastic dials, a switch, and a small viewing screen. A sonar satellite receiver protrudes off of one side.

I notice this in one glance, but the mutant control box isn't what has our attention. It is the half mangled carcass of a decomposing body lying spread eagled on the ground just to the left of the pile of dirty grass. It has nothing but stumps where its limbs once were. It appears to be male by the size and muscle stature, though it's hard to tell. Lying on his front, the deceased's face is planted into the muck of the cave floor, drowning in a pool of his own blood and torn flesh. Chunks of skin and bone are missing from his torso, gaping wounds destroyed by vicious claw marks and jagged fang impressions. Glade whimpers, releases my hand, and turns to vomit against the nearby stone wall.

"This is it," Clay marches over, ignoring the body and concentrating on the homemade sonar contraption. "It's genius, I don't know how he knew how to put it together and make it work. More important, I have no idea how we're going to destroy it."

"Toss it over," I say, trying hard not to breathe, fearing I may follow Glade in emptying my stomach if we don't get out of this hell hole soon. "I'll smash the damn thing."

"No," Clay picks the box up by the strap and holds it as if to protect it from harm. "That'll make too much noise; draw too much attention too soon. Toss me your bottle of rubbing alcohol, Lil," he commands, stepping around the poor dead bastard at his feet and dropping the box into the pile of meadow grass. "Lily?"

She's not listening, standing like a stunned statue just inside the cave with her fear filled eyes on the carcass, unblinking.

"Hey," Clay raises his voice only a little, glancing warily over her shoulder toward the bluff where the mutants are still gathered. "We don't have time, give me the bottle."

"Sage…" When she speaks, Lily's voice comes out in a strained whisper, catching in her constricted airway.

"What?" I ask, as impatient as Clay. My nerves are on edge, and I want to get as far away from this place as possible, fast.

"Look," Lily points at the dead man's body with a shaky finger. Not at his missing limbs, his mangled face, or even the grotesque wounds in his sides, but at his back. Most of his clothing has been stripped away along with the flesh, but part of his jacket remains. A grey, polyester military style jacket belonging to a uniform with a name and rank stitched in black just below the collar between the shoulder blades. This man was from District 13.

I can't help but curse out loud in my alarm. This body is still fresh, dead only a few hours, a day at the most… "A solider from the District 13 hunting party."

Lily looks up, meeting my eye, and we both think the same thing at once.

"Mom's here."

"Good," Clay interrupts, striding across the cave and searching in Lily's pack himself to pull out the half empty bottle of antiseptic rubbing alcohol. "We'll send her a smoke signal, let her know where to find you."

Emptying the liquid contents over the metal box and sprinkling the last few drops on the surrounding clumps of damp hay, Clay tosses the bottle aside and pulls out a book of matches. Kneeling down, he prepares to light one, stopping only to yank the satellite piece off the box. A connecting wire breaks and sends off a spark, almost eliminating the need for a match at all. Clay lights one anyway, starting a fire which quickly ignites and sends up a billow of foul smelling black smoke.

"Go," Clay commands while roughly pushing me forward toward the open end of the small cave, "get up top and slow them down."

I open my mouth in confusion, but he just cuts me off.

"We've got about two seconds before they see that smoke and come running, kid. You want to be penned in here when they do? Go!" With one more shove, he tosses me his sheaf of arrows and grabs both girls by the arms, dragging them in the other direction, out the other side of the rock shelf. "You're a better shot than me, shoot that damn Humant and as many of his followers as you can. Buy me some time to get these two out and then run. Run like hell, and meet us back by the pines. Now!"

He takes off, pulling Lily and Glade along with him as the sound of converging mutants rings out on the bluff. I turn and see a black sea of charging beasts running as one unit straight for the rock shelf at full speed. A hundred gleaming, craze filled eyes glint like acid green diamonds swimming in pools of black blood. They don't even care what the smoke might mean; a mutant doesn't think beyond reaction. Only their master knows that flames mean destruction, and his followers feel only what he commands them to feel.

_Not any more,_ I think, turning and darting up the side of the rock wall, getting into position at the highest point of the shelf with my fingers on an arrow, ready to load my weapon and release it as soon as my target is within range. That bastard of evolution is going to have a hard time controlling his minions without his little device of despotism.

Plumes of smoke billow out from each side of the rock shelf as I stand with feet planted, poised and prepared to shoot. The stench is overwhelming, but I hold my breath and blink the stinging tears from my eyes, trying to keep my vision clear. I need to see, need to get the perfect shot…

A pack of mutants at the front of the herd drive heedlessly straight into the mouth of the cave and disappear beneath my feet into the wall of smoke. A few of the smarter brutes hesitate at the last second, causing those behind them to stumble and collide into a confusing mesh of fur and fangs. I take a few shots into the upheaval, striking skull bone and piercing wild, rolling eyes. The air is filled with the sound of yelps, growls, and bone chilling hissing unlike any normal animal I have ever heard. The sound of it makes my skin crawl, but it is nothing compared to the way my blood turns to ice when I first see him.

"Humant" was a joke, an amusing nickname for something we knew nothing about. He is not simply a mutant with very human-like qualities. This is something unlike I could have ever imagined. He has to be close to ten feet tall with an arching curve to his back which gives him a stooped look, like a giant reaching to pluck a tree from its roots. Long, muscular arms swing at his sides giving him a very ape-like appearance, though his skin is bare and rough, hairless with a tough, raw hide like leather. He walks like a man on two clawed feet, scraping the ground in a swooping stride and crossing the ground at a very rapid pace. Also like a man, he has taken to wearing clothes. A simple breech cloth hangs around his waist, tied by a frayed piece of rope. The rest of his body is bare and exposed to the cold, though he doesn't seem effected by it. The great, angular jowls of his face are covered in hair which grows in a thick, wavy beard covering his leathery chest and meets with the equally long tufts of hair from his head.

Everything about him is gray, from the color of his skin and razor sharp claws, to his eyes and hair. Everything gray but for one think strand growing from the top of his head down his boorish face. Stark white in contrast, it reminds me of the stripe of a skunk or a badger running along the side of his left jaw and flying in the breeze as he gains speed across the open clearing.

I can't move. Mesmerized by the sight of something almost too unreal for words, I can't seem to release the arrow hanging slack against the loose string of my bow. The beasts are advancing, scrambling up the side of the rock shelf, abandoning the allure of the fire for the promise of prey standing dumb at the top of the stone slab. And I cannot pull my gaze away…

The Humant is close enough that I can see the whites of his eyes. Not white, gray. Everything is gray. The pupils of his eyes aren't even black, but a darker shade of gray, paler than they should have been and more sinister for being so. Both eyes lock on me standing above him with bow in hand, and the Humant skids to stop, digging the sharp points of two back talons on his heels into the dirt to slow him down. For a second our eyes meet, and I hesitate too long.

A spider-like mutant with numerous slimy legs reaches the top of the rock shelf and begins wrapping itself around me, taking my balance and knocking half my arrows to the ground out of reach. Catching myself before I fall, I hold tight to my bow and reach for my knife. I can't quite tell where on this mucus dripping body lay the head or the tail. It seems to have no visible eyes, but can see very well and is intent on squeezing the life out of me before tearing off my limbs. Kicking out, I land a hard blow to which ever end is closest and manage to get the beast to slacken its hold. Driving the tip of my blade into the mutant's gut, I pull and release a pile of pale yellow entrails all over the ground. The creature screams a horrifying emission of pain and falls back, curling into itself and rolling off the edge of the stone, taking two other fumbling mutants with it.

Scrambling to my feet, I grab the nearest arrow and take aim, searching wildly for the Humant. "_Damn_ _it_," he's gone. He's nowhere to be seen in this mess of brawling mutants on the ground. Without a leader to control them, they have turned on one another, biting, clawing, ripping each other to pieces like the mindless predators they were created to be.

Shooting one in the head as it attempts to pull itself over the rock shelf, I don't waste time watching it fall. I grab what arrows I can and make a run for it, jumping over rocks, tree roots, and dodging combatting mutants in my way. I have to get to the others before they do…before the Humant reaches them first.

It's beginning to snow; heavy, wet flakes dropping from the slate gray sky. My breath is a cloud of frost, stinging in my lungs as I sprint through the scant foliage, dodging trees and scrambling over boulders. I can hear the distant growling and barking of combatting mutants drawling closer, gaining on me as I reach the two pines where we are supposed to meet. Supposed to, but nobody is there. I think for a moment that I have gotten the wrong trees, but soon stumble upon the lifeless body of the winged mutant lying in a heap under Glade's and my pine with Clay's arrow still sticking erect from its skull.

I look around, hoping they are just hiding nearby, glancing up and expecting to see them between the branches of the trees, waiting. Nothing, they are not here. How did I manage to beat them back? I didn't pass them as I ran, did I?

Whipping around, I squint back through the woods, anxiously scanning the foliage for any sight of them. There is movement between the rocks, but it isn't human. Mutants are coming, two of them so near that I am sure they can smell me. There is no time to run or even climb a tree. They would surely see me, and I am certain that height would not provide any protection against these beasts.

Thinking fast, I drop to the ground and lie flat on my back. Keeping my bow close to my side, I grab hold of the dead mutant and drag its heavy carcass over me to conceal my body and cover my sent. The stench of the mutant is enough to make me gag, but I hold my breath and freeze, not moving a muscle as the sound of the monsters draws closer.

They make a great deal of noise, pounding through the brush, breathing with heavy, ragged breaths, snorting and growling with adrenaline. They sniff the air and catch the scent of their dead comrade, stopping short and howling with curiosity. I don't dare turn my head to see if they are planning to investigate, and I can only hope that they don't have an appetite for their own kind.

If they do, they are in too much of a hurry to stop for lunch. I wait several prolonged moments after their pounding footsteps die on the hard-packed ground going east. Shoving the mutant's body off of me, I gasp for fresh air and pick up my bow. As I reach down for a dropped arrow, I hear a high-pitched scream rent the air. Jumping at the sound, I scan the trees desperately, trying to judge which direction it came from. I don't have to wait long to hear it again, echoing off the rocks with a chilling effect.

Scrambling over the nearest boulder, I take off for the rock stair leading back to the clearing on the bluff. "Glade!" I don't care who can hear me or what my calls might bring. I need to get to her, to _them_, now. "Lily!" My lungs are burning in my chest with every frigid breath. The snow is falling in erratic swirls and, as soon as I burst out into the open air of the bluff, the wind gusts up, nearly knocking me off my feet.

Stumbling, I catch myself and look out across the expanse of the grassy bluff. Like a golden sea, the meadow brush whips in the wind beneath the blinding white of a driving snowstorm as it gains in strength. The flakes are thick and wet, dampening my hair as it melts after landing. Wiping my vision clear, I find Lily twenty feet in front of me, on the ground and screaming in terror. Glade is in front of her shooting wild arrows from her bow to fight off the encroaching mutants closing them in against the side of the bluff. Lily is screaming for Clay who lies pinned beneath the heavy, talon-clawed foot of the Humant standing over him with a ghastly gin on its near human-like features.

I call out in alarm to get the beast's attention, but it is drowned out by the wind. Sprinting across the clearing, I fire from my bow mid-motion, lodging an arrow into the Humant's massive forearm. He stumbles back slightly, stepping off of Clay's chest with a wrenching tearing sound as a portion of Clay's flesh pulls free with it, attached to the sharp point of the talon puncturing his abdomen.

Clay's body jerks, shuddering in pain and he falls back unconscious. Lily screams, wailing as a trickle of blood flows out of the corner of his mouth. The sight of it has held me up still two yards from the Humant as he looks down and slowly pulls the piercing arrowhead out of his arm. With a venomous glare locked on Glade, he drops it to the ground and begins to advance. The Humant thinks she was the one who shot him…

"Glade!" I yell her name, jumping back to life and running at the Humant as he looms over her, a giant dwarfing his prey. Glade's eyes grow wide with fear, and she backs up, tripping over Lily still wailing hysterically in the grass.

Before I can reach them, the Humant has Glade by the throat with one claw, his thick dagger-like nails digging into her neck. She drops her bow as he lifts her three feet off the ground, cutting off her airway and stifling her terror-filled scream. I forget about my own bow, tossing it aside and reaching for my knife in my belt. Charging at the beast, I let out a yell and jump him from behind, driving the point of the knife into his already wounded arm.

Greasy black blood flows from his torn flesh, and the Humant roars in furious pain. Whipping back his arm, he releases Glade from his grip and sends her crashing to the ground. She lies in an immobile heap bleeding profusely from a gash in her throat, but I have no time to see if she is alright. The Humant's attention is now on me, and I have no weapon to defend myself with. My knife is lodged deep in his forearm, my bow several feet out of my reach back in the grass.

"Lily!" I yell, standing my ground as the Humant turns his glare from his wound to me, baring his grisly fangs with a growl. "Throw me the machete!" I don't know if this thing can speak or even understand what I am saying. Mom never said if mutants were given the ability of communication, but my words seem to cause the Humant to hesitate, flexing where he stands and stretching to his full height. Like a gorilla preparing to strike, he overshadows the three of us on the ground, and I reach for the machete just as he makes his move.

The Humant lunges in an attempt to skewer me with his deadliest weapon, those claws that I am beginning to hate. I duck and make a swipe with the machete, hoping to slice those damn razors right off and replace them with a pair of bleeding stumps. I am quick, but he his faster, following my every strike and meeting it with a heavy blow. I am tossed to the ground like a sack of flour, the wind knocked out of my lungs with a certainty that several of my ribs are cracked. A stinging in my side tells me that I've been cut and, looking down, I see dripping blood in the grass, bright red against the snow.

Dropping on my left shoulder, I roll out of the way as the Humant tries to drive a claw into my back. He misses and hits the dirt instead, growing angry and puffy frosty steam through dilated nostrils. He's an ape, yes, but with eyes and mannerisms so human that I know I am dealing with a calculating maniac. The red glow of death in his eyes as he bears down on me a second time turns my insides to ice. He hates me. He doesn't know me but he hates me and wants me dead.

Not me. Or, not just me, but all humans. The humans that created him, controlled him, and then left him to die in the Northern Wild. This organized act of rebellion is for vengeance…he has been planning his own war against Panem.

In the second it takes me to realize this, I lay dumbstruck on my back, struggling to breathe. The machete lies loosely in my hand. My fingers are too numb and swollen with cold to lift it. Mesmerized by the animal hate emanating from this terrorizing creature, I do nothing to defend myself as he leans over me, kicks the machete aside, and grabs me by the neck as he did to Glade.

My windpipe is immediately closed off. I choke in an attempt to draw in air, instantly feeling lightheaded and weak. I can see Lily off to the right, on her feet and firing blindly at oncoming mutants circling our little pack. Tears stream down her face; she is shaking with sobs and doesn't see me. She doesn't see me dying, and I can't call out for help. Glade is somewhere, bleeding, maybe dead. Clay…not two feet away and still not moving.

_Oh, God,_ I think, staring into the blood red eyes of this monster, choking and covered in his dripping, sweating stench. We're going to die… My fingers fumble in the grass and touch something cold. The machete…within reach but just barely. I struggle against the Humant's hold on my neck, grimacing against the sharp pain of his talons digging into my flesh. My fingers close around the blade, and I cut the inside of my hand picking it up, turning it around and driving it with all my remaining strength into this monster's side. It is all I can do, but it has little effect. Like a pinprick, the blade barely penetrates the thick layers of muscle, and I do little more than irritate the Humant further.

Baring his pointed, yellowed teeth, he tightens his grip on my throat, shaking me hard and slamming my head into the earth. Fuzzy spots of light dance before my vision, and I fight the urge to pass out. I hear Lily cry out once more but can no longer see her. I see nothing as my eyelids close. I give one more effort to draw in air before giving up.

There is a roaring sound in my ears, the wind, I think. Strong and suddenly warm like a gust from billows stoking a glowing pile of hot embers. The Humant's grip slackens; air fills my lungs like a welcome second chance. I gasp and cough, opening my eyes. He is still crouched over me, hovering like an oppressive shadow with fangs gritted in a threatening grimace as if he wasn't just shot in the eye. I stare at the arrow that wasn't there before and blink. I know that arrow…I know that shot, perfect, dead center in the eye.

Shifting on the ground, I look up and see the fleet of hovercrafts swooping in on the bluff. In a second I find Mom standing on the deck of an open aircraft, poised with an empty bow. The hovercraft lowers within feet of the grassy cliff, but it isn't Mom who disembarks first. Dad doesn't even wait for the plane to descend completely over the bluff, but jumps and lands with a roll on the edge of the cliff. Springing to his feet, Dad runs at the Humant, drawing a knife of his own and barreling into the beast with enough force to knock it off its feet.

I watch in amazement as my dad repeatedly drives the hilt of his blade into the open chest of the Humant who is no longer fighting. The arrow didn't kill him outright, but destroyed his senses, driving the human out of the animal and leaving a mere mutant behind. After several deep thrusts of the knife, Dad steps back. Black blood drips from his hand still held tight to the handle of the blade. Catching his breath and wiping sweat and gore from his face with the edge of his t-shirt, he turns to me. I have never seen that look in his eyes before, a steel blue gaze that is a little bit terrifying. I can only stare, unable to move.

All around us is the noise of a hunting party. Mom's little army has landed and is taking out every mutant in sight, running for the trees with rifles and bows to chase down the fleeing monsters, not leaving any alive to risk another attack on a District citizen. Lily is crying nearby, sobbing and clutching her empty bow like it's a lifeline. And I can only watch Dad.

He catches my eye and swallows as if it is painful to do so, breathing deep and running an arm across his jaw to wipe away the blood. Snow clings to his hair and stands out against the dark color of his shirt on his broad shoulders. Turning the knife in his hand, he holds it by the flat of the blade, turning the handle towards me, waiting.

I hesitate before reaching up and taking it. It hurts every fiber of my body to move, but I do. Rolling over and getting to my knees beside Dad and driving the knife deep into the Humant's chest. Its twitching, convulsing body goes still, those terrible blood red eyes roll back in its ape-like head, and it dies.

The knife is too deep to pull it back out without much effort, so I leave it. Sinking back on my heels in exhaustion, I look around at the chaotic scene on the top of Hawthorne's Bluff and cannot believe that I am actually alive. Dad drops a light hand on my shoulder, watching the same thing I am without speaking. I think he's as grateful as I am, grateful he and Mom made it when they did. That we are still alive…

"Glade," I return to life, whipping around and searching wildly for where she lay. Scrambling to my feet, I dart to her side, turning her pale, listless face toward mine. "Lily!" I call for my sister, placing a trembling hand on Glade's bleeding neck gash. It is still flowing heavily, thank God. Not gushing like a wound of the dying, or dry like the wound of the dead. She's unconscious but breathing…for now. "Lily!" I scream for her attention, breaking her out of her trance and getting her to look at me.

Lily drops her gaze to my hand staunching the blood flow from Glade's throat and something registers in her eyes, dropping back to earth out of her reverie. In an instant she is the competent healer again, crawling rapidly across the snow dampened grass to Glade's side and taking over.

"Help her," I plead, worried that it is too late, that she has lost more blood than I think.

"Sage," Dad calls for me. He is kneeling beside Clay, checking for a pulse. "Wave down the number two hovercraft; we've got to get them out of here. Now."


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

Clay was right, it was the smoke from the fire that brought Mom and her District 13 army to the bluff. They had been tracking the mutants all the way south to 12 and had come upon a small pack denned up in a dry ravine late on the night Clay, Glade, Lily and I had spent at the cabin. Mom had just rejoined the group after jumping off the train in 13. With the fleet of hovercrafts and fresh supplies, she landed in the woods outside of 12 just to hear that the capturing of the pack of mutants was unsuccessful and they had lost one of their men. The soldier we had seen under the rock shelf, of course. A serviceman named Weaks, originally from District 5.

The team had been regrouping, preparing to head out again with a fresh path to follow in finding the mutants when they noticed smoke on the bluff. Mom told me she knew right away where it was coming from and it all clicked. They weren't just going to find a few mutants, she had told her crew. The rogue half-man had led them all there, and now someone had started a fire.

She admits that she didn't know what to expect upon reaching the bluff, but had a suspicion it was us. "Haymitch sent a message to your father in the Capitol the morning of the attack in the Village," she explains. Sitting at our kitchen table she watches while I attempt to eat a bowl of steaming broth Dad is forcing upon me to keep my mind off of Clay and Glade still being cared for at the clinic in town. I want to be there, but both Mom and Dad refuse to let me go. Lily has wrapped my broken ribs and cared for all my cuts and scratches, stitching up the deepest gashes on my neck and bandaging the rest.

"He told me you and Lily were gone," Dad pours Mom a cup of coffee and sets one down for himself, joining us at the table. "It didn't take much to guess the kid everyone saw run after the mutant after the attack was the president's missing son either. So I borrowed Peaks' hovercraft and flew home, found Mom, and prepared to hunt both you and the mutants down. I figured if we found one, we'd find the other."

I fail to hide a grin. He's right about that. Thankfully he doesn't seem that upset, just tired. Tired and relieved, I think.

"I knew you'd be up there," Mom agrees, "but I didn't imagine we'd find what we did. Yates' description of the half-man didn't even come close. You should be dead, Sage."

"But he isn't," Dad put a stop to that line of thinking. I'm not sure, but I think there is a hint of pride in his voice when he says it. "He isn't."

"And neither are Clay and Glade," Lily appears in the open kitchen doorway. The sun has returned, melting the snow just before beginning to set over the hilltops. There is a refreshing chill in the air, and my stomach does an odd sort of flop at her words. I turn abruptly in my seat, wincing at the pain that erupts in my battered torso. Forgetting even my attempt to eat, I struggle out of my chair despite Dad's command to stay put.

"She's okay? They're okay?" I ask Lily, desperate for answers.

She nods with a watery, tired smile. "They're fine, just sleeping. You can see them now though," she stops me, guessing my next move. "Tomorrow, maybe. They need rest now, and besides, Glade can't talk anyway."

I look at her in surprise. Can't talk? What did she mean?

"Her throat suffered a lot of damage. It's going to take some time to heal. Relax," Lily rolls her eyes. "Eventually she'll regain her full speaking capacity…unfortunately," she mumbles the last under her breath, but I don't even care. I'm just so glad Glade's okay that I sit down too quickly in my chair and have to catch my own breath, jostling my sore ribs once again in my carelessness. I think I'm actually hungry now, and I reach for a roll from a basket in the middle of the table, dipping it in my broth and taking a large bite.

"Take it easy," Dad warns with a raised eyebrow before turning to Lily. "What about Clay?"

I slow down my chewing, actually surprised that he even asked. I thought Dad hated Clay.

"He'll make it," Lily nods, sitting down in an empty chair. She says this with assurance, but far less enthusiasm. Her face is full of worry, and I fear she is going to start crying again. "It's pretty bad, Dad. Healer Rook performed surgery to repair the internal damage, but he couldn't fix it all. They plan on doing another tomorrow, to finish…" she trails off, unable to go on. Lily just sits there, staring at nothing with eyes swimming with tears. Mom's concern shows on her face, but she says nothing, simply getting up from the table and helping Lily to her feet. They both leave the kitchen, Mom leading the way up the stairs, and Dad and I listen for the door to close in Lily's room.

"I think she likes him," I speak eventually.

Dad frowns. "God, I hope not."

I can't help but laugh into my soup. "He could be dying. Can't you forgive a dying man, the president's son?"

He snorts derisively, shaking his head. "A dying man, maybe. But being Peaks' son doesn't help his case."

"Well, he doesn't want to be," I point out. "If that helps any."

"No," Dad assures me. "I hope the kid makes a full recovery. I'll make sure he has the finest care while he's in 12. Then I'll personally see him on the train back to the Capitol once he's all cleared for travel."

I grin, catching his eye across the table. He can always try, I guess. But if Lily likes Clay as much as I think, not even the great and influential Peeta Mellark will be able to keep him away. I hope for more than one reason Clay is alright. I would pay to see him go up against my dad in an argument over Lily. Shoot, I'd sell tickets.

I am not able to see Glade the next day after all. Through the night I come down with a fever, a side effect of an infection that grew as a result of my injuries, despite Lily's best efforts. I spend all day in bed, delirious and jumpy from nightmares that drive me from a fretful sleep. Dad spends the entire time sitting near my bedside, making sure I'm alright. At least I think so; he's always there when I wake up with enough sense to know what's going on. Mom pops in and out too, and Lily, but it is Dad that I remember most. For once I don't care that he is hovering and babying me like he always has. A predominate character in my dreams, I can't get Dad out of my head, or the image of him knifing the hell out of that Humant. All my life I have been told that Peeta Mellark is a heroic legend of the Hunger Games. I never believed it, never could see it, not even after watching all that footage with Clay. Mom was heroic; there is no question about that, but Dad? Dad was a hopeless romantic playing a strategic game. He never even killed any of the other tributes, barely engaged in combat…unless it was to protect Mom.

The sight of him attacking that mutant leaves an impression on me that I can't shake. Dad can be fierce. Fierce when someone he cares about it threatened. And that's why I don't mind if he sits while I sleep, or don't argue when my fever breaks but he still insists I stay in bed for one more day. He's just protecting someone he loves, and I not about to get in the way of that. I've seen what he can to those who dare to interfere.

A few days after the mutant attack on the bluff I am finally deemed healthy enough to leave the house. A fresh layer of snow has fallen again, and this time it sticks, covering the Village with a glittering dusting of dazzling white. The sun is pale behind hazy gray clouds, and I slip into Grandpa Everdeen's old hunting jacket before stepping out of the house to walk to town.

President Peaks had wished to bring Clay back to the Capitol for medical treatment, but the Healers in 12 advised her against moving him just yet. Both of his surgeries went well, but Clay continues to slip in and out of consciousness, hooked up to machines which pump in antibiotics to keep infection at bay. I don't know when I get there if they will allow me to see him or if he will even be awake.

I find Lily in her mentor's office at the clinic, and she manages to get me cleared for a visit in the intensive care unit next door. There are two guards posted outside Clay's room, but other than that he is alone. I'm not sure where the president is and don't bother asking.

"Hey," I speak so Clay knows that I am there, waiting to see if his eyes will open in response. They do, looking a little watery and heavy with the effects of the drugs.

"Hey, kid," he manages a weak grin. Being locked away in doors hasn't done much for his complexion. I'm sure not for his disposition either.

"How're you feeling?"

"Like I've been mauled by a mutant," he grunts, attempting to prop himself up better on his mountain of pillows. Lily steps in without a word and adjusts them for him, helping Clay get comfortable before perching on a nearby stool and slipping her hand in his. I'm not that surprised by the gesture and don't embarrass her by bringing attention to it. It was only a matter of time, though I will be telling Dad first chance I get, just for kicks.

"Well, you look great," I assure him sarcastically.

"Better than you," he grins for real this time. "Seen your girl yet?"

I shake my head no, "Going there next."

"Had to see me first though, huh? Love you too, kid."

"Just thought I'd get it out of the way," I can't help but jab in return. Clay looks awful, but it is a relief to know that his is going to be okay. I have a feeling he'll milk his wounds as long as he can. No sense rushing back to the Capitol when he can be pampered by Lily and the rests of the District 12 Healer staff.

Clay wants to hear all about my fight with the Humant down to the details of Mom's army swooping in from the air and Dad's uncharacteristic rage kill. I told him what I could remember, skipping over my failed attempt to stab the Humant properly in the side. I also may have exaggerated my final, killing blow a little bit, but he would never know the difference.

I am anxious to see Glade, so I let Clay know that I'll be back in to see him sometime before he is released and leave him alone with Lily. I don't even think they notice or care that I leave, really.

The snow on the streets of the Main Square has melted into a muddy, sloshy mush. I pick my way through the pedestrian traffic, knocking on the window of the Gallery to wave to Kit as I pass by. No one answers my first ring at the mayor's door, and I hope that doesn't mean that no one is home. Or worse yet, that they are refusing to let me see Glade and are too furious to even open the door. I try again, and this time I hear the sound of footsteps approaching in the foyer.

"Mellark," Mayor Orwell himself answers the door looking a little worse for well. The president has been a guest at his home during her stay in District 12. I assume this is what has him so…distracted.

"Sage," I remind him, unsure whether or not he thinks I am me or my dad.

"Glade is up stairs," he doesn't seem to hear me, turning and disappearing to the back of the house with other things on his mind. I stand in the open door a little confused, but willing to go with it. I haven't really spent much time in the mayor's mansion, next to no time on the second level, and far less in Glade's bedroom. I find it easily enough since the door is halfway open, a soft light spilling out into the hall.

I knock lightly, peering in to find Glade resting on her bed with an open fashion magazine from the Capitol lying on her lap. She looks up in surprise, smiling with her eyes when she sees me. My heart skips an unexpected beat. God, she's beautiful. The bruising and scarring on her neck also take me off guard, and I can't hide a look of concern as I enter the room.

"It's about time," she croaks through a whisper, trying not to strain her sore vocal cords. "Where have they been keeping you?"

"Locked up under surveillance," I take her offered hand and sit beside her on the edge of the bed. The lighting in the room is low with the curtains half drawn over the windows. I'm a little nervous being in Glade's room, even with her father's permission. It still feels rebellious somehow, and I think she senses my awkward discomfort.

Smiling coyly, Glade plays with my fingers with one hand while reaching up and gently touching my own set of bruises below my jawline. "Look, we match."

I laugh at her lighthearted spin on the situation. "Almost," I run my own finger under her chin, lifting it for a better look at the jagged gash running from below her ear and stopping just short of her collarbone. Another half an inch and… "Does it hurt?" I ask, swallowing hard and trying not to think about the what-ifs.

"Only a little," Glade admits with a minor shrug.

I can fix that. Leaning in, I brush her wound softly with my lips, then her cheek, finishing at her lips. She responds by kissing me back, and I hope very much that Orwell doesn't wander in unannounced. "I'm glad you're okay."

"What about you?" Glade raises an eyebrow, moving so I can settle back against her pillows, drawing in close with her head on my chest. "I thought that thing was going to kill you."

So did I actually, but I'm not going to admit it. "Mom and Dad to the rescue again," I reply blandly. I'm grateful, sure but, in front of Glade, it's just slightly embarrassing.

"You didn't need their help," she assures me generously. I appreciate her confidence and don't correct her.

"I guess our hunting trips to the woods are over."

"Why?" Glade glances up at me.

"Hasn't your dad thrown a fit about you being out there?"

"Of course," she shrugs and then smiles. "But when has that stopped us?"

I don't want to leave the mayor's mansion at the end of the afternoon, but I promised Dad that I would be home in time for dinner. When I arrive, I find him in the office in front of his canvass with a brush in hand. He was there when I left, and I have a feeling he hasn't moved this whole time. If his progress says anything it's that he done nothing but paint all day. It's an amazing piece, but I can't look at it. It's too real, to close to a perfect match. Dad paints as a form of therapy. He copes with a situation by capturing it in color and brush strokes to confine it to make sense of the horror and chaos. I get it, but I don't. I would rather not see the image of those blood red eyes and vicious fangs ever again.

Turning away from the painting, I take a seat in Mom's desk chair and swivel toward the window, looking out at the hills shadowed in the dying light.

"How's Glade?" Dad asks without looking up from his work.

"Fine," I shrug, playing with a pen on the desktop. "Doesn't look too great, but she's okay."

"I hope you didn't tell her that."

"No, I mean…" I try not to laugh. "You know what I mean."

Dad sets down his brush, picking up a paint-stained towel and wiping his hands clean. Sitting down on a nearby stool, he reluctantly draws his eyes away from the canvass and focuses on me.

"Did I interrupt," I start to get up, preparing to leave him to his work.

"Sit," he shakes his head. "I need to quit and start dinner soon."

I nod and relax back into my seat.

"I talked to your mom today," Dad informs me.

_Okay…_ "About what?"

"You. Katniss is leading a hunting party to track down game in the Northern Wild. Peaks hopes to offset the threat of famine this winter if at all possible, and it will require a lot of skilled hunters. Mom wants you to go with her."

I raise an incredulous eyebrow.

"I agree that you should," he tells me honestly. "Who else can I trust to keep an eye on your mother?"

I'm so surprised I nearly laugh. What happened to my dad? I almost don't trust him, waiting for the punch line. "For real?"

"Yeah, for real," he scoffs.

"What about school?"

"I'm confident you'll keep up," he presents it as a challenge; one I'm willing to take. "They need you, Sage," Dad meets my eye seriously. "If anyone can survive out there, it's you. God, you're so much like your mother," he shakes his head, looking baffled. "I always tried to protect her too. She never needed it either."

He's referring to the Games, I know, and now I'm really taken back by the direction of this conversation. Maybe I'm dreaming or something, who is this? "You protected her," I try to assure him. "You kept those Careers from killing her in the first Games."

"She would've made it without me."

I have never heard my dad admit so much in my life. Everyone always acts like he's so perfect; I just always assumed he believed it too. "I wouldn't have," I tell him. "That Hu— mutant would've killed me."

Dad frowns thoughtfully, considering what I just said. "No," he says. "I don't think so."

I don't know what to say to that, so I look away, glancing back out the window with a tired sigh. "Well, maybe I can take care of myself around wild animals like Mom, but I don't have a clue what to do around girls like you do."

"Correction," Dad holds up a finger. "One girl. I was only ever good with your Mom."

"Yeah, how did you win her over?" I ask. "Besides the whole cat saving thing, 'cause I know that wasn't it."

Dad laughs, nodding. "You're right, Katniss hated that stupid cat. No, I got your mom because of my baking."

"For real?" That sounds lame.

"Honest, she can't resist my chocolate cake."

"Then I guess I'm screwed," I mutter. I can't bake worth a damn. "I'd probably poison her."

"That wouldn't be good."

"No."

"Then I guess it's time to teach my son the family trade." Dad gets to his feet, not missing the disgusted look on my face. "Do you want that girl to like you or not?"

"She already likes me," I point out, standing to follow him out of the room anyway.

"Bring her chocolate and she'll love you forever, trust me."

I am willing to go with it, because I do trust him. I trust him with my life. Mom may be the expert with the bow, she may be the fearless Mockingjay of Panem, but I'm starting to see the value in having an overprotective worrier for a father. He's not so bad, I guess. There's more to survival in this world than a sharp arrow and perfect aim. There's something to be said for a quick intellect, undying loyalty, and conditioned self-control. Dad may be the hopeless romantic to Mom's toughened exterior, but it can't hurt to take a little guidance from his book of survival every now and again. It's gotten him this far, and I have to admit, after all I've learned, I wouldn't mind being a bit more like him.

"Are you ready for this?" Dad tosses me a fresh bag of flour out of the pantry. I nearly drop it in surprise, getting doused in a fine white powder which makes me cough.

"No," I mutter, setting the sack down on the table. "Can't I just take her your cake and claim it as mine?"

"If you want to be a liar, sure," he pulls out a mixing bowl and puts me to work cracking eggs. We both look up when Mom walks in the kitchen door, bringing a fresh gust of cold air with her. Dad crosses the room, helping her out of her jacket and taking the bag of fresh kill she has brought in for dinner.

"What are you two doing?" Mom glances about the kitchen curiously, raising an eyebrow at the egg white dripping all over my hand.

Dad catches my eye a second before turning to her with a sideways grin. "Bonding."

"Really?" Mom seems incredulous. "Well, don't forget to wash your hands when you're done."

I just shake my head in amused annoyance, handing off the bowl of eggs and waiting for my next instructions. Trying to ignore the discomfort of watching my parents kiss, I pretend to read the back of a package of baking chocolate. Some people might feel intimidated, being the kid of the famous star-crossed Tributes of the Hunger Games. Most would be daunted by the expectations, the spotlight, and the criticism that comes with living beneath their shadow. Not me. Truthfully, it just feels like home.

**Disclaimer: Nearly all characters and settings were borrowed from author Suzanne Collins who was in no way involved nor did she endorse any of what is written in these chapters.**

**Thank you for reading! I enjoyed writing this fanfiction very much, even it wasn't centered entirely around Peeta and Katniss, which is what I enjoy writing about most. I hope you still had fun reading it though! Please leave comments and feedback, love to hear what you thought of this piece! **


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